Engulfment
by slwmtiondaylite1
Summary: Steampunk AU. Regal. Elegant. Dark eyes. Eyebrows sweeping upwards towards dark hair, the bangs cut in a straight line across his forehead. Pointed ears. A Vulcan. Nyota's eyes widened. She had thought they all were wiped out by the devastating e'shua, a creature miles long, that rose from the bottom of the ocean and engulfed the entire region of Shi'al...
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

 _SQUEEEEAAAAK!_

The train squealed, whipping around the sharp curve.

Nyota Uhura clenched the safety bar about her head. She looked out the narrow window. Tall chimneys and rusty smoke pipes of the buildings below the raised track grazed the train's roof, a loud screeching of metal colliding with metal and concrete. She darted her gaze to the floor. The large buildings' cogs and springs twisted and clanked. She looked outside again. The old broken-down buildings emptied their waste into the Nataran River's watershed, a murky and sludgy liquid. A pungent fluid.

Nyota crinkled her nose.

Dahanna Station loomed over the tracks, just beyond the curve. It was massive. The largest building in all of Dahanna'Kahr. The pride of the sprawling capital. With its high arches, curving bell towers, and flying buttresses, she had been terrified of it when she was a child, clinging to her mother's skirts. It was going to swallow her up. Terrified until she saw the rose window—the largest in all of An'rak—gleaming in the gritty city lights.

Beautiful.

Magnificent.

Magical.

A gift from Shi'al, mother told her. For peace. For tranquility.

The window caught the glow of the setting sun. And the regal shapes of the gods wore their shining halos.

Below the window, the stationed opened its mouth, the large metal slats groaning in protest. She closed her eyes. And opened them. Took a deep breath. Her thesis advisor had been unhelpful today. _Oh, you can do more, Miss Uhura. Don't you think useless Vulcan writing systems are bland and unexciting? You're a scientist of culture, of language._ Vulcan metaphors and writing systems were a valid option. A worthy pursuit. Yes. A scientist of culture and language. And was it not important to preserve that which has been lost?

The train passed through the opening and a murky darkness engulfed it. The massive door closed, sealing away the remaining sunlight. A loud whistle and a rough slam of the brakes and the locomotive skittered to a stop, the cars swaying.

Nyota released her tight grip on the pole, pain shooting through her fingers. She winced. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she stepped forward. One step. Two steps. A large body pressed against her back, pushing her further, into the woman in front of her. She pushed back against the giant behind her. Everyone wanted off. But they had to wait. Another step forward. Another body off the train.

Another. And another.

And then it was her turn to step off the train. And into the cooling air. She shivered and slipped on her gloves, ensuring they fit properly, and brought her folded parasol to her chest. A growling thunder sounded from the west. The month of _Re'T'Khuta_ was living up to its name. This would be the fifteenth consecutive rainy spring evening.

A man shoved against her, his shoulder smashing against hers as he pushed past her, muttering just under his breath. Nyota sighed, readjusting her shawl. Too many people were out now. And she was later than she would have liked returning home. But her thesis threatened to overwhelm her—and her useless advisor—demanding much of her time at the University on the other side of the city. She shouldn't be too upset. She was an exception to the rule, a rarity. Most of citizens of Dahanna'Kahr people would never attend the university—either money or lack of intelligence. And the industries and factories required many, many hands to run. For that was how Dahanna'Kahr prospered, how the Empire prospered. Her father, a well-respected professor and friend with many high officials, including the Prime Minister himself, pulled strings to get into the university. He kept her from the factories. And she was thankful for that, certainly.

Nyota looked up. The airships circled and docked. And one, it had the Ta'vistan banner, sword and quill. From the north. Oh, how she missed Ta'vistar. And its endless diversity and culture, and its defiance of Imperial rules and expectations. Unity and camaraderie ruled the colorful land. It was _the_ place for a linguist. For her. The things she could learn. The things she could discover. And she did. For a time. Until her parents discovered her whereabouts and her father dragged her back home, threats of the brothels on his tongue. Did he truly dare? She had been too terrified to find out.

She had been enrolled the next day. A consolation, he told her. Just stay here.

Safe.

Protected.

Watched.

So, she did what she must.

And then she met him.

Another brute of a man shoved against her. "Move it!"

Nyota gasped. Shook her head. Walked. Where was he? Another aspect of her life. Gone. Missing.

She had followed him down the darkened alleys, excitable giggles behind closed hands. Because on those nights, danger lurked. And it was fun. Ta'vistar's peaceful gatherings—resolutions made with smiles and handshakes—were miles and miles away, a distant memory in Kafeh Alley. Where famed scientist, Doctor Leonard McCoy, lived. Helped. Used to. Where he used to live. Where he used to help. He was no longer in Dahhana'Kahr. He couldn't be.

No, of course, he wasn't in Dahhana'Kahr any longer. It's been five years. He was no longer here.

He was running. Or maybe he was dead.

How could she know?

Nyota shook her head. Five years. Time to forget him.

Turned out, her father had been right about keeping his eye on her. Dr. McCoy was a monster. And she had been I and stupid when she giggled in the darkened alleys and fell into his bed.

Her walk from the train led her to the bridge over Nataran River, where a steamboat blew its horn below. Looking down, she halted. Her body froze. She closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath, sending a silent prayer to the gods, whichever one deigned her worthy of attention. This bridge was rickety, swinging in the breeze. And just last week, across the Station, across the expanse on the other side, a train had come in from Gol Province, bringing with it several Klingon passengers. That bridge over there, it collapsed without warning, falling into the murky depths below. And with it, those Klingon passengers. No survivors were found. The Council of Qo'noS was furious, demanding to know why the bridge had been left in a state of disrepair. Inquiries were still being investigated; reports had yet to be completed and filed. Still, others believed it to be divine intervention on behalf of the lost royal Surakian line. Retribution for the loss of the gods' most beloved and favored children. If it wasn't divine intervention that took them away in the first place

Someone or something released the beast.

Or commanded Leonard to do it.

A betrayal. Was the gods' or the royals'?

Nyota took a breath and a step forward, her heel clicking against the wooden bridge.

It held.

She took another, landing firmly on the wooden planks. The wind shifted, blowing against her. She flailed, grabbing the rope barrier, clenching it in her hand.

Another step.

And another.

Until she stood on solid ground. And she breathed and released her hold on the rope.

One obstacle passed.

Now, another stood before her.

The Torvaya. A large metallic, whirring mechanical guard. A new creation. A creation that would not have been possible without the Vulcans. For only they had the ability to create and control these things. But they were now gone. And these beings had no master. She could not avoid them. Not when Leonard's actions demanded their placement throughout Dahhana'Kahr. The golden sentry held a two-pronged limb out.

Nyota reached into her clutch and retrieved her identification card.

The Torvaya took it and swiped it across the scanner attached to its front.

She held her breath. Her heart raced.

She knew Leonard. And everyone in Xial—in all of An'rak—was looking for him. When would they come for her? She'd already received letters at her door. Ominous letters with vile threats. All bearing the symbol of the Prime Minister. She told no one of these. Most certainly not her father. He'd only admonish her for that embarrassing affair. Lecture her on his prominence and how her inability to keep her legs shut led to whispers behind his back. _I have an important duty, daughter. To our Prime Minister, to our growing Empire. I cannot have afford rumors of my_ whore _of a daughter._

Leonard destroyed an entire riverside district of brothels and drug houses with his monster. A victory, according to some, to be sure. But all those lives lost. _How could I have been so wrong about him?_

The Torvaya was only a mere machine, governed by an extremely complex series of springs and cogs, twisting and turning in precise degrees. That had to be what it was. But the way they moved. The way they _breathed_. Alive. They were alive. Magic powered them. Gave life to those springs and cogs. The strange thaumaturgical powers were new, foreign to the Empire, barely older than herself. Rolling through the corridors of Dahhana Station on massive golden wheels, they lashed out at passing civilians, seizing them in their claws, sirens on their heads sounding. Were they just enforcing the law, somehow knowing this man was a rebel, that woman a spy? Or were they operating on their own agenda, freed from their former masters' control?

The machine's siren whirred once—Nyota's heart stopped—before it faltered. It collapsed on itself for a brief moment. Then righted itself and handed her the card back.

She snatched it from the claw and returned it to her clutch. She raced past it, swinging her folded parasol at her side.

The expansive interior of the Station soon gave way to a smaller hallway. Decorated with gilded golden pointed arches, stained glass, and an intricately designed hardwood floor, it led to the Thol District. Home to the rich and privileged. The home of nobles, government officials and anyone lucky enough to have impressed the Prime Minister and his people, like her father. And his close relationship with Prime Minister Nero was all the more reason Nyota sought to keep her letters quiet. Nero ordered them. He must have.

Did her father already know anyway? Regardless of her silence? Did he believe he was right about embarrassment of a daughter?

Nyota shook her head and pushed through the exit door, shoving past the small crowd assembled outside, waiting for taxis, watching the occupied old rust yellow vehicles crawl across the dirty road. She released the latch on her parasol and the little umbrella unfolded. She brought it to her shoulder and walked down the path.

She rounded the corner and onto the street that would lead her to her apartment, sidestepping several people.

"Who lives there?" A whisper on her left.

"I heard it's that professor's daughter. You know, the one who…" the reply trailed off.

Nyota glanced in the voice's direction. Yes. The one who fucked the mad scientist. The one who fucked her way to the prestigious Ph.D. Program. She'd heard it all.

She looked forward. And halted.

An armed Militia officer exited her apartment door. And behind him, several other officers. They all carried her belongings.

Her heart raced. Why were they here? Did they decide her obvious connection to Leonard meant she was guilty? Guilty by association?

She took a step back.

The Prime Minister had been quite vocal on his discontent regarding the incident. Leonard was a criminal, wanted by the Empire. Wanted: dead or alive. They searched for him haven't found him yet. Instead, they were looking at his contacts. And she, with her torrid affair with him, was top on the list.

 _But I haven't seen the bastard in years!_

She knew what the newly formed Empire did to criminals. They walked the streets near Kafel Alley, limbs savagely torn from their bodies, replaced with others. Brutal punishment worse than death, technology magically intertwined with medicine. She saw those people. There were stories of others: men and women, who all spoke against the Prime Minister and his rule, snatched off the streets and turned into slaves, tongues removed, free will shattered. She'd heard all of this.

But dismissed it.

Nothing more than stories made up to scare people, to get people to listen to Nero. Or to get people to join up against him.

And those people whose bodies had been reshaped? They were criminals, not worth her time nor her concern. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves. They earned what they got. Her father told her that. Every since childhood, he'd instilled a sense of loyalty, of understanding. The Prime Minister wanted to protect her and everyone else. And these methods they employed, while stomach-turning, were necessary for the greater good. _We must thank the Surakian line for this gift of safety_.

But now, they were coming out of her home, seizing her property.

Why? She didn't know what he did when he went down in his lab. She didn't know what sort of experiments he conducted while she slept in his bed, sheets askew. She didn't know. So, why were they here? Why? Were the letters just a beginning? Did she do something wrong and didn't know it? Did the Prime Minister finally decide to bring her in? After five years? To question her, torture her, turn her into one of those pathetic souls that roamed Kafel Alley, if she didn't talk?

Did her father know?

She had no information. Nothing to give him. Nothing.

But they would not believe her, would they? But they would not punish her so cruelly? That was for murderers and rapists.

Right?

Nyota turned around, her pace quickening. She could not return home. Where could she go? She couldn't risk the lives of her friends and comrades. This was her battle to fight alone. Except she couldn't fight it. There were far too many of them and they were all much too powerful. Did they already contact her parents? Did they search their home? She didn't know and she couldn't risk contacting them to find out.

Rain fell on the city. Nyota clutched her parasol, and moved through the crowd. She didn't know where she would go, but she couldn't remain here. She brought a hand to her heaving chest. Breathe. She couldn't breathe.

She returned to Dahhana Station, walked back down that gilded hallway. Instead of returning to the trains, she took a turn to an elevator, heading for the upper deck. She needed to take an airship.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened onto the top floor. She stepped off and looked around the grand lobby. There were no Militia soldiers here.

She approached the ticket stand. She smiled at the clerk. "Hi. I need a ticket to the farthest place within the next thirty minutes."

The Andorian's antenna twitched. "Very well."

Nyota took a breath, struggling to contain her nerves. She was sure she would never be able to return home.

She took an airship from Dahhana'Kahr across the land, flying above mountains, deserts, rivers. She left. It was no longer home. The airship took her to Dzhaya'an'Kahr, the coastal home of the Denobulans. When she landed, she feared it wasn't far enough. Too many Militia soldiers roamed the streets of the coastal city, passing small buildings caked in salt from the sea.

She needed to run further.

*/*\\*

The Bay of Dzhaya'an would have been beautiful. Should have been beautiful. If it wasn't for that ugly ship at the docks.

Nyota strode ahead, clinging to her clutch and parasol. Her only belongings. Everything else, gone. Left behind. She'd never be able to see them again. _All that research_ , she lamented. Gone. And no way to retrieve or find it again. A lost civilization lost again.

A few hundred yards from the shore, that decrepit ship swayed, its anchor firmly in the silt, years of barnacles scabbing the chain. A large wooden structure built at the stern. Unsteady masts rose, the sails—patched in several places—fluttered. Would it even survive a night on the open sea? She looked further down the shore. There, a majestic beast of ship stood tall in the water, its metallic sides still brilliant, catching the sunlight. Steam billowed from its stacks. On the deck, seating, a croquet court, even a pool. It looked like safety. It was bound for Ta'vistar.

Nyota hesitated, looking from that ship back to the pathetic dying boat. The eyes of the sailors on board penetrated through her. Ta'vistar was as far as she'd gone on her own. But this wasn't Ta'vistar. This place wasn't home of the greatest minds the An'rakian Empire had to offer. It wasn't home to diplomats who sought to create peace and prosperity with their meetings in open town squares, smiles and handshakes. When her father had retrieved her, he grunted his frustration and hatred for the simpering idiots who dressed like _mathra_ , strutting about in their colorful costumes and towering hairstyles. Oh, how he despised Ta'vistar.

But it would be the first place they'd look.

These men now, on that dinghy, stared at her. What did they see? A woman on the run, alone and vulnerable? A whore to take to their rooms and ravish?

The ship blew its horn.

Nyota startled. She boarded the boat, _The_ _Khosaar_ , clinging to what she had. Her hands shook. The deckhands looked at her, this small woman who carried nothing. Tired. Dirty. Her home, Dahhana'Kahr, was behind her. Now, it was nothing but a memory. She could never return. She was a fugitive, running from the Militia. Once it was determined she was missing, the alarm would be sounded. What would happen to her if they caught her?

But they won't. She was far, far away.

She was far away, but the details lingered. The crippling fear as she raced through dirty alleys. The pungent smell of the chemical-infused water of the Nataran River. The flock of _xirahnah_ , massive birds with chrome-colored feathers, crying out eerily, as they flew alongside the airship as it crossed deserts below. How strange, she thought. The birds were known for their preference for water.

Nyota looked at the men and turned her back, approaching the edge of the boat. More passengers were coming. Denobulans, mostly. A Klingon. An Andorian. And—

No.

A line of criminals, chained and mutilated, pushed and prodded towards the ship.

"This is no place for a lady."

Nyota gasped, her hand to her chest, and spun around.

The man smiled, bright eyes and bright smile. A human. A rare sight in this province. "My apologies, Miss—"

"Uhura."

"Uhura. I didn't mean to startle you." he took a step forward. "I'm Captain Robau."

Nyota nodded. "Pleased to meet you." She returned her gaze to the criminals.

Robau moved to stand beside her. "So, why are you on board this ship? Much less, heading to Xir'tan?"

She took a breath. She couldn't tell him. She couldn't say that she was running away. Not when those Militia soldiers are so close by. He could yell at them. Bring them over. "I've been asked to lend my linguistic abilities to the N'Klan Militia." A lie, but it was the best she had. Xir'tan was dangerous territory, prone to earthquakes on an almost daily basis. And N'Klan? It was home to outcasts and criminals. The ones no one else wanted. It was safe. Well, safe from the Prime Minister.

"You're just in time. _The Khosaar_ is the last passenger ship leaving this dock for quite a while—"

Nyota glanced at the large vessel further down. It blew its horn. The boarding dock was pulled up.

"—Most of the fleet in Dzhaya'an'Kahr have been deployed. This battle with Armada is taking quite the toll on our ships."

"Armada?" But it was just a tale. A giant floating city of stolen ships. It didn't exist. It couldn't. No one alive had seen it. Only letters claiming its existence survived. No proof.

Robau nodded. "Yea. Those damn pirates have been causing quite a stir lately. The Prime Minister is not too happy about it."

She nodded. Yes, of course, he wouldn't be. Pirates—whether they were from the fictional Armada or not—were a danger for everyone. They were ruthless. Deadly. There were stories of civilians being taken away, killed. Ships disappearing into the Voroth Sea.

"I'd be careful, if I were you. While on board." Robau pointed to the chain-linked men and women. "We've got ourselves a bit of unpleasant cargo this trip. Stay in your room. Or, if you need to come out, make sure you're accompanied by either myself or another member of my crew."

Nyota opened her mouth, shaking her head. No. She could take care of herself. She wasn't invalid. She wasn't—

"This is my ship. And those are my rules. If you want to remain onboard, then I suggest you follow them."

She sighed. "Fine." She took a deep breath. This was it. She was not going to turn back, regardless of the dangers at sea. The dangers of returning home were far greater.

*/*\\*

The _Khosaar_ floated across the water, slicing through the waves. Above, the sky was sodden and gray. The shoreline was rugged, lined with crabgrass and pale ferns. It looked worn and cold. Fishermen lined the shore, preparing their small dinghies for the day's work. They stopped and watched the derelict ship. They resembled the rocky hills in the distance: hard, dirty, unforgiving.

Nyota leaned against the porthole, pressing her forehead into the cold scratched glass. She'd been looking out the window for hours. She folded her arms under her breasts and sighed. She'd remained in this tiny room as she was instructed by Captain Robau. But she was so terribly bored. Her skin itched. A scream bubbled just inside her throat, demanding release.

It felt like a prison, looked like a prison. Bare, dank wooden planks, scratched and worn. Her bed shifted every time she lay in it, its frame uneven with the floor. The sheets were piled against the wall, their stench too unbearable. She was only allowed out once a day to visit the mess hall and only then, under the watchful gaze of either the captain or one of his most trusted men.

She hated this arrangement, no matter how temporary. Temporary, but still an eternity. Fear drove her. Drove her to this tiny room with its rank bedding and its sweat-infused heavy air. She was suffocating. Her hair, dirty and wet with salty heat, clung to her skull. She swiped it away. Her dress, once pristine with white and black stripes, hung heavy on her body, stained with sweat and grime. By the gods, she needed a bath.

She sighed, a light breath of air escaping her lips. Stepping away from the small porthole, she took a seat at the small desk at the foot of her bed. She was thankful that the captain supplied her with ink and paper when she requested it. When she didn't stare out of the porthole, longing to return to dry land, to return home, to the past where she wasn't fearing for her life because she fell in bed with a man who later proved to be unhinged. At least, she had this.

She'd been writing this letter since she arrived on board. The lines and sentences and paragraphs were arranged like diary entries, with dates in the corners. She used different languages: Klingon, Denobulan, Andorian, the extinct Vulcan. She knew no one would be able to read it, but she didn't care. It wasn't for anyone to read anyway. It was for her and her alone. She reached for the quill and opened the ink well. She dipped the quill into the ink.

 _Veh'gad, 26th of Re'T'Khuta, aboard the Khosaar_

 _It's been nearly two weeks since we set sail from Dzhaya'an'Kahr and one week since we left the port of Kwil'inor. I was simultaneously enthralled by the city and repulsed. I've only ever been away from home once, you know. And oh, how I loved it. How I had longed for it when my father came and took me home. To explore the other cultures, to see their homes. It is a wonderful dream. I only wish I wasn't running for my life. But Kwil'inor is violent, dirty. I was not sad to leave it behind. Have you been there? I don't know if you have or not. There's so much about you I don't know._

 _Kwil'inor is a place of prostitution and piracy. Of shipyards and train yards. Railroads crisscrossed the streets, passed buildings barely standing. The captain allowed me to join him on shore, on the condition that I didn't leave his side. Kwil'inor isn't the place for a lady, he said. What does he know? He assumes I am a lady, but I'm not. I don't want to be this lady he feels the need to protect. I'm not weak._

 _But I digress._

 _Captain Robau took me with him as he negotiated with the pirates and the shipbuilders. And the prostitutes. He gained new passengers, new cargo. And we returned to the ship. It was a short trip._

 _I've stayed in my cabin as the captain ordered me. But it is so dreadfully boring. The walls feel as though they're closing in, as if I'm going to suffocate in this cabin. I want out. I want to explore the ship. But there are things and people the captain doesn't want me to see. He doesn't think a "lady" should see certain things. I want to punch him._

 _Where are you? Why did you release that terrible creation? Why? They came for me. Did you know that? Did you care what would happen to those who associated themselves with you when you did it? Did you care? I don't think you did. I should hate you for it. I haven't thought about you since the last time we saw each other. And now, you're seeping to the surface of my mind like the caustics of a septic pool. I want to be rid of you. I don't want to think of you anymore._

 _But trapped here, I have no other—_

A hushed whisper interrupted her writing. Setting her quill down, Nyota looked across the tiny cabin, where her roommate sat, her legs tucked underneath her, her hands clasped together and held near her chest, knuckles white. She was a pickup from Kwil'inor. The young woman did not move from her spot at the foot of her bed, did not cease her prayers until she was retrieved for dinner. She did not speak to Nyota. Nyota didn't exist. Not to this woman.

The woman wore white robes, soft and fluttering, a long simple shawl draped across her left shoulder, pinned in place by a simple broach. Wrapped around her, just below her breasts, a delicate sash with red and white woolen ribbons. Upon her head, obscuring her hair and her ears, a white veil. Her garments identified where she hailed. She was a priestess. A Daughter of Valdena the Maiden from the Kul'Cha'Vir Temple, in the northern province of Tat'sahr. Northwest of Ta'vistar.

But the Daughters of Valdena were supposed to remain within the Temple walls and never venture passed them without the escort of a Temple guardian or monk. This woman had neither.

She was disgraced, exiled.

The gentle swell of her belly underneath her robes. Yes, it was easy to assume why The Daughters of Valdena were supposed to remain virgins, having taken a vow of chastity upon entering the service. And this priestess was pregnant. And everyone knew. She carried her humiliation on her front like a heavy weight.

Fallen from grace, succumbed to the sensual pleasures of the body, this woman clung to her religion, praying, as if prayer could save her from her sins. But did Nyota have a right to cast stones? To judge? She was running for the same indiscretion.

Nyota wasn't sure if she should be sad for the young woman or disappointed. To become a Daughter of Valdena was a great honor, bestowed only upon eighteen women at any given time. And this woman turned her back on her calling and spread her legs for a man.

The woman's hands dropped in her lap and her eyes closed. She took a deep breath and braced herself against her makeshift altar. She pushed herself to her feet, unbalanced by the baby inside her.

Nyota remained silent, watching the woman from behind her tiny desk. She was curious. The priestess had never removed herself from her prayers before.

She approached the small armoire against the wall between their beds and reached for the jug. She poured water into a small bowl and grabbed a washcloth from the drawer. She took the bowl and cloth back to her bed, setting the bowl on the floor by the foot of the bed. With her back turned to Nyota, the priestess reached for the pin securing her shawl and released it. The shawl tumbled down her shoulder into a heap on the lumpy mattress. She reached down and wet the cloth in the water. Sitting up, she loosened her robes and let them slide down her shoulder, catching on the crook of her arms.

She brought the cloth over her shoulder, reaching in vain. Angry, oozing, green gashes marred her back.

Nyota gasped, her hand coming to her mouth.

The priestess reacted quickly, dropping the damp cloth and pulling her robes over her shoulders. She turned her head to the side, her eyes searching for the source of the sound.

Nyota stood, pushing the chair back. It squealed against the wooden floor. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

The woman turned her head forward, wrapping her arms around her chest.

Nyota approached her, stepping softly and slowly. The priestess was distressed, attempting to fold in on herself. Nyota sat on the bed beside her. "What happened to you?"

The priestess shook her head, refusing to look at her. "It is no concern of yours. My punishment is mine and mine alone to bear."

"Punishment?"

The woman turned her head away from Nyota.

"The guardians and monks of the Temple did this to you?" She was surprised, her eyes wide. Those of Kul'Cha'Vir Temple were supposed to be peaceful, serene. This act of violence against a priestess of their ranks didn't sit well with her. She looked at the priestess again. She was thin, much too thin for a pregnant woman. Her breathing was erratic. Perspiration dotted her face and wild eyes stared at the wall in front of her.

Nyota moved on the mattress, moving behind the woman, and pushed the robes down her shoulders. The priestess didn't fight her. Seeing the wounds up close—swollen, oozing, inflamed—Nyota fought to suppress a gag. "These are infected."

The priestess pulled her robes up once again. "It is none of your concern." She looked straight ahead, her face a careful mask of indifference.

"You'll die if you don't get these cleaned."

"Then that is the will of the gods."

Nyota sighed. Did she not understand that it was not just her life at stake? "Let me help you, Priestess."

"I am no longer a priestess of Valdena. It would be unwise of you to refer to me as such."

"Forgive me. What should I call you? We've been cabin mates for a week now and I still don't know your name."

The priestess was silent was a moment, then—"My family called me T'Pring."

"T'Pring." Nyota tested the name on her tongue. It was a unique name, one she hadn't heard before. "That's a lovely name."

"It's a name. Now, please let me be. I must return to my prayers."

"But you need help. You have a child to look after. You need to remain healthy for the baby."

The priestess' head dropped and her shaking hands hovered above the swell under her robes, but she dropped them to her sides. "Thank you for your offer, but your help is not needed." She looked away, her hand swiping at her face.

Nyota moved off the mattress and knelt in front of the woman. She was struck by the ethereal beauty of the woman, even in her weakened state. Flawless skin, gorgeous dark eyes. Alluring upswept eyebrows. "You'll die. And your baby will die."

"Then that is how it shall be." She turned her body so that she sat completely on the bed, her legs tucked underneath her, and brought her clasped hands to her chest, closing her eyes. A mantra of words tumbled from her lips.

Nyota released a slow breath and stood. She wasn't going to be able to reach the fallen priestess anymore. She looked around the small cabin, at the dirty walls. She needed out. She moved to the door and opened it.

A man stood on the other side, an officer of Robau's. He was one of the men assigned by Robau to protect Nyota's cabin, to ensure that no one dangerous neared the door. "Can I help you, Miss?"

"Can you take me to Captain Robau?"

He nodded.

*/*\\*

Nyota inhaled deeply, breathing in the salty sea air. She stood on the deck of the _Khosaar_ , gripping the iron railings with both hands and staring out at nothing but water for the first time in her life. The sun was high in the sky, warming the air around her, dousing her in a delightful warmth.

"You wanted to see me?"

She turned around and saw Captain Robau standing before her, hands clasped behind his back. He smiled kindly at her.

She nodded. "Do you have any medical supplies on board?" She was going to help T'Pring whether the priestess wanted it or not.

An eyebrow rose. "Are you injured?"

She shook her head. "No. It's not for me. It's for—"

A man yelled from the crow's nest, shouting to the captain below. Robau and Nyota looked up. The man pointed off the starboard bow. There was a dirigible, a former seaworthy ship tethered to a massive patched balloon with countless ropes.

"Shit!" Robau yelled. He turned to Nyota. "You need to get back to your cabin."

Nyota's eyes moved from the dirigible to the captain, her heart racing. "Why? Who are those people?"

"Armada."

The dirigible floated above the _Khosaar_ and a rope was dropped to the deck of the sea vessel. Robau shouted orders to his men, telling them defend the ship, to fire if needed.

Armada? But it was a legend. A myth. A horror story told on the open seas to keep sailors in line. And she told Robau as much.

"Then stay here. And hope it's all a nightmare. Maybe you'll wake up in your bed if you count to three," he yelled, reaching for the pistol at his side.

A svelte man, his waist fused with powerful hind legs of an antelope, sailed down the rope above. He landed behind them, graceful and composed. Robau and Nyota spun around to look at him. Nyota gasped.

The pirate held a pistol out. Above him, his comrades began their descent onto the ship. "You the captain?" he asked Robau.

The captain stepped forward, placing himself in front of Nyota. "What the hell are you doing on my ship?!"

The antelopian pirate fired the pistol—Nyota screamed—and Robau flew back, falling to the deck. Bullet wound to his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The setting sun doused the ocean in a myriad of color. Reds. Pinks. Oranges. Nyota stared towards it. It was a beautiful sight. She hadn't had the opportunity to witness a sunset since boarding the _Khosaar_. This was what she'd been missing, holed up behind the massive walls of Dahhana'Kahr's factories and cathedrals for several years. The beauty. Beauty still existed. The dirty grim back alleys of Dahanna'Kahr strangled that beauty. And it became so easy to forget its existence. The ship lurched to one side, caught on a rolling wave. Nyota stumbled, catching herself before she fell to her hands. She steadied herself on her knees, clasping her hands behind her head, her trembling fingers clenching in her hair. Tears leaked from her eyes, but she kept her gaze steady on the ocean and setting sun.

If she kept looking at them, nothing else around her existed. If she kept gazing at the sunset, she could be a pier. She could be in bed, with an attentive lover. She could be in the massive library of the University. This wasn't happening.

Her eyes slipped to the dead body of Captain Robau. A man who had been kind to her, concerned for her safety though he knew nothing about her. Even if his rules frustrated her. Even if he was misguided in his belief that she was a demure child.

A small cry escaped her mouth and Nyota's eyes darted back to the ocean.

If she only looked at the sun, then he didn't lay on the deck, blood seeping from the bullet wound in his head, staining the wooden planks. Staring blankly into the sky above.

A body swayed into her side. "Hey. It'll be alright."

No. If she stared at the ocean, then she could ignore the man on his knees to her right. Large twitching metallic spikes erupting from his back like grotesque _xirahanah_ wings, glinting in the light. His own arm removed, replaced by the forelimb of a _le-matya_ , the sharp claws dripping green poison, hanging limply at his side.

 _Can he even control it? Or does it control him?_

A _vavesh-tor._ A criminal. A criminal caught by the government of Dahhana'Kahr and punished for his crimes, through the splicing and grafting of metal and animal flesh to his body. Remade. No longer human. Now, everyone knew what he was. A vile person. A criminal. He could not escape the judgment of those around him.

Nyota, if she stared long and hard at the sea and the sun, could ignore his unnerving presence. What had he done to deserve such punishment; was he a murderer, a thief? A rapist?

She could ignore his fellow criminal to his right. A man whose legs were no longer his own. Once, they belonged to a _d'rachanya,_ the feared reptilian creature that roamed the Go'an Desert. Thick scales. Long spindles down the backs of the legs. Now, they hung from his waist unnaturally, twisted, monstrous. Large glistening _sehlat_ fangs peered from his mouth, dripping and glistening with saliva.

To her left, a Denobulan man. His face, enlarged, denoting his fear and anxiety. His torn shirt—torn in his desperate attempt to escape—revealed the ridges along his spine.

She never should have left Dahhana'Kahr. She should have taken her chances. She should have told her father the truth about the letters. He could have helped her. The Prime Minister liked him. He respected him. If her father vouched for her, she could be at the University now, learning the proper syntax and translation for a sensual and passionate Romulan poem.

Around them, the pirates moved down the line, speaking to everyone, kneeling down in front of them, whispering. Whispering what, Nyota could only guess; she looked only at the sunset.

"Think I could take 'em?"

That voice again.

She jerked her head in his direction. "What?" she hissed.

He laughed. His bright blue eyes squinting closed, mouth wide. Who the hell was this guy? She looked away.

"There's only two. I can take 'em." He leaned in closer to her, the spikes on his back twitching toward her. "Name's Kirk, by the way. Jim Kirk."

Nyota arched her body away from his as best as she could, without falling into the shaking Denobulan. Her own body trembled, the cooling air brushing against her damp skin.

"Aren't you going to tell me your name?"

She returned her gaze in front of her, beyond the ship, out to sea. To the horizon, to the low sun. The pirates were coming closer. She didn't want them to see her fear. When they killed her.

The captain of the _Khosaar_ was dead, murdered in cold blood by these pirates. Along with his crew. No one who could save them was left. Yes, she was going to die tonight. She needed to accept that.

"You know, in polite society, when someone introduces himself, the lovely woman would honor him with her name."

She rolled her eyes. Their lives were in the hands of these pirates and he wanted her name?

The pirates moved closer, their dirty bodies catching the remaining sunlight, glinting off the sweat on their brows. She could see them out of the corner of her eye, kneeling in front of the Denobulan, whispering to him. The Denobulan grew more tense. His face grew exponentially, the ridges around his eyes stretching to their limits. He jumped to his feet, swinging his fists at the pirates.

They were quick to retaliate, pulling their swords from their sheaths. It was a dreadfully uneven fight.

Nyota jerked away, her body falling against Kirk's. He wrapped a hand around her waist, steadying her, and she squirmed away from him.

The pirates slashed their swords at the unarmed but terrified Denobulan, slicing his skin. He wailed.

A pirate yelled.

A woman screamed.

Nyota glanced up, her initial fear subsiding as her focus was redirected away from the _vavesh-tor_ , from Kirk.

The yelling pirate, a young man with a scar framing the side of his face, curling around his eye and brow before receding down the side of his neck and disappearing under his shirt, held the woman's arms.

T'Pring.

She struggled against his grasp but in her weakened state, she could not defend herself. The young pirate threw her to the ground and she cried out, her hands clutching her abdomen.

The _vavesh-tor_ beside Nyota—Kirk and his companion—got to their feet and charged the pirates, Kirk's _le-matya_ arm swinging and the other's fangs gnashing.

And a fight broke out.

Nyota seized the distraction and ran across the deck, desperate to protect the pregnant priestess. T'Pring groaned, curling around herself.

"T'Pring! Are you hurt?" Nyota fell to the ground beside her, her skirts billowing behind her.

T'Pring shook her head, her veil falling across her face. She took a deep breath and released it. Her eyes closed and her mantra began anew. Did she know what was happening? The danger they were all in? Or was she so lost in her own pain, her own sickness? Was it a blessing that she not know? The goddess Valdena would not heed her call, for she had been forsaken. Nyota took T'Pring in her arms, pulling her close and closing her own eyes. Joining her in prayer. Would the goddess listen to two scorned women? Did it matter?

A vibrant whistle. Bodies falling with load thuds against the wooden deck.

Nyota dared open her eyes, sitting up, leaning back on her haunches, keeping her hands on the priestess' back. She caught sight of a man, hair graying at the sides, eyes piercing. A jagged scar marred his face, cutting from his forehead, across his eye, to his cheek. He wore a dark uniform, pressed and clean.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded, his voice loud and angry.

The pirates released their captives: the dead Denobulan and the fighting _vavesh-tor_. They pressed the sides of their hands to their foreheads in awkward salutes. "Sir!" they sounded in tandem.

The man—their leader, Nyota was sure—stepped forward. "I didn't give you the order to kill any of the passengers."

"They attacked us first!"

The man chuckled. "Well, we did invade their ship." The well-dressed pirate stepped past them to look at the two _vavesh-tor_. He knelt in front of Kirk, avoiding his poison-riddled limb. He whispered to him, his words lost to Nyota in the blowing wind.

She clung to T'Pring. The pregnant woman might not have asked for her help, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to give it. Nyota didn't want to watch the priestess die. It would be a senseless death. There have been too many already tonight.

The pirates' leader stood and turned to Nyota and T'Pring, approaching them.

Nyota held her breath. What would pirates want with two women? _One thing. They only want one thing_. She trembled. Tears pooled in her eyes. Her father had warned her. Act like a whore, then you'll be a whore.

"My dears—" the man started.

A loud yell behind him. A pirate tumbling to the ground, screaming, clutching his neck. Behind the leader's feet, Nyota could see the blood pooling.

The pirates' leader jerked around face the charging _vavesh-tor_ —the one with the reptile legs and the blood-stained _sehlat_ fangs. He stumbled back.

But then the _vavesh-tor_ fell to the ground.

And behind him, another man stood, lowering his hand to his side. Regal. Elegant. He held himself straight, hands now clasped behind his back. Dark eyes. Eyebrows sweeping upwards towards dark hair, the bangs cut in a straight line across his forehead. Pointed ears. A Vulcan. Nyota's eyes widened. She had thought they all were wiped out by the devastating _e'shua_ , a daemon miles long, that rose from the bottom of the ocean and engulfed the entire region of Shi'al and with it, the glorious Vulcan city of Shi'Kahr, famous for its art, its thaumaturgical endeavors, with one large swipe of its massive mouth. Famous for the Surakian line. And the legends surrounding the famed _sa'te'kru_ —the king of Shi'al. All of it gone in a single horrifying instant.

The Vulcans were a notoriously secluded, private people. She had only seen one other in her life, when she was a child, during a rare visit of a Vulcan diplomat to her father's estate, there on behalf of his _sa'te'kru_. His king. She had been fascinated. Never had she seen someone so stoic, so regal. And elegant. And serious. She wondered what happened to him. Was he at home in the Shi'al Province when it disappeared in the sea? Or did he escape that fate because of his duties?

He was probably dead, like the others.

Unlike all the other races on An'rak, the Vulcans were the most unique. A race she yearned to learn from, to visit their home. The majestic Vulcans sought peace and harmony through logic and the suppression of their passionate emotions. A peaceful telepathic race that, through a cruel unimaginable act of nature, was wiped from the planet.

Or, Nyota thought, looking at the Vulcan standing before her, they were. Clearly some escaped.

"Spock! You killed him?" the leader asked.

"No, sir. He will regain consciousness in time." Spock scanned the line of passengers. His eyes settled on her, lingering and eying her dark hair, wet, matted and clinging to her face. Her soft brown skin. His eyes drifted downward to her charge and widened. But he did not speak. He walked toward the other man, the one with the grotesque scar, and whispered something in the man's ear.

The man stood, stepping away from Nyota and T'Pring, guiding the Vulcan to a spot away from the crowd. Nyota watched the two men converse. Twice, the scarred man looked back at her and T'Pring.

Finally the man nodded and returned to the pirates and captives. He cleared his throat. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Captain Christopher Pike. Now, I want you to listen to me and I want you to listen good. Your lives, as you know them, are over. You are no longer citizens of Dahhana'Kahr, Du'Leb, Shannai'Kahr, or wherever the hell else you hail from. Those lives are over. Done. Finite. You belong to us now. You belong to Armada. And you will work for Armada. And you will protect Armada. And when we arrive, you will pledge your allegiance to Armada. Do I make myself clear?"

Nyota shook her head. This couldn't be happening. Armada was supposed to be a fairytale, something parents told their children in order to scare them into obedience. It wasn't supposed to be real.

"And if we decline?" Kirk's voice rang out among the crowd.

Pike laughed. "Now, why would you want to do that? You're a _vavesh-tor_. You were headed to N'Klan to begin life as prisoner. A laborer." Pike stepped closer to Nyota, kneeling before her and T'Pring.

Nyota felt tears burn in the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

"And besides," the captain continued. "Anyone who protests will be thrown overboard."

A quiet sob escaped her lips.

*/*\\*

It was a cool night. Cooler than usual on the vast never-ending ocean. But inside, it was stifling, the air thick with trapped heat and sex. And she usually relished the scent of sex. It floated to her nose and she'd feel a rush, a tingling. The green-skinned woman swung the door open and stepped out of her cabin and onto the _Sekhat's_ deck. She let out a gasp when the cool air collided with her hot, naked body. She stretched her arms to the sky. She smiled. If Commander Spock were here, he'd lecture her on propriety and common public decency. But what difference did it make if she traipsed around the place with ten thick layers of fur or nothing but what the gods gave her? They'd all seen it. the most important of them enjoyed it. And she enjoyed it, as well, the pheromones wafting from their bodies as they caught sight of her tits and her quim.

She was good. And she knew it. They all knew it.

Well, most of them did.

Behind her, the door opened again and a young man exited, his opened shirt draped over his shoulders.

He met her gaze for a moment, before dropping his eyes to the buttons on his shirt.

His sharp blue eyes unnerved her still. And she hated that. He was kind and gentle. A genuinely good person. A sight so rare, particularly in her line of work. Particularly here. But those metallic eyes—thaumaturgical marvels, she knew—scared her. Two twin signs that technology was wrong. That nothing good could ever come from thaumaturges locked in tiny laboratories in monstrous government buildings in Dahhana'Kahr, laughing manically as they created defilement after defilement. With magic and knowledge stolen from a dead race.

But she kept that feeling buried. He hadn't deserved what happened to him—no one did—and she was grateful that Captain Pike busted through the doors and shot every thaumaturge in the lab dead, bullets in between their eyes. His father was a good man, he had said. Captain Pike had sacrificed his illustrious career in the Fleet for this boy, a dead friend's son. And brought him here to Armada.

The Prime Minister was a vile disgusting man if he thought sweet Pavel deserved the life of a _vavesh-tor_. What Pavel did, Gaila didn't know. He wouldn't talk about it. And she tried all she could, because she knew it was something that still weighed heavily on his mind. Five years later, the boy of fifteen was now a man of twenty and the flashbacks and nightly terrors had lessened to simply bi-weekly nightmares. And last night was one of the worst in months.

So he had sought her out. She helped him. It was her job, after all.

Gaila smiled at him, wrapping a long translucent robe around her green body and flipping her red hair over her shoulder. He didn't see her smile, of course, looking downward, his fingers working the buttons of his shirt. It was doubtful he'd be able to discern it anyway. His man-made eyes gave him unnatural vision—no one could hide behind walls without him knowing—but he still struggled with simple things. Struggled to find a small button hole in a muddled sea of greens and blues and reds.

"Here, let me." She reached for the buttons and finished slipping them through the small holes of his shirt.

Young Pavel blushed. "Thank you, Miss Gaila." His voice carried a thick accent, evidence of his Aba'kurian upbringing.

She smiled again. She adored him. In her profession, having favorites could be dangerous. Reckless. Irresponsible. Because feelings weren't allowed for Courtesans—it was ingrained since the first day she set foot in the guild's home in Sura'Kahr. It was a great honor for an Orion girl to be invited to join. But there were rules. And she was treading dangerously close to breaking them. Gaila rose on her toes and brought his forehead to her lips, kissing him gently.

A loud holler. She turned from him and looked to the sky. A dirigible—the _Fletan_ —sailed in the sky. Captain Pike and his crew have returned.

"Finally!" Gaila exclaimed. "They better have brought back Rillian melon. I told Christopher that I needed more. I have clients with needs. Does he not understand how difficult it is to use _gespar_ for pleasure? Far too sticky and acidic. I want people to scream in _pleasure_ when I finish them, not because their sex parts are on fire."

Pavel cleared his throat. "I thought they were seeking a new library."

She waved a hand at him. "Oh, yes. That, too." A look at the ocean below the _Fletan_ and she could see a rough-looking ship sailing. That's what they found? Gaila scoffed. How could it stand to replace the _Kau_ , how could it stand to hold Commander Spock's vast library of saved books when it looked inches away from sinking into the ocean itself?

Weeks ago, someone had set the library alight. On accident or purposely, Gaila did not know. Commander Spock perhaps could inform her of the cause if she cared enough to ask him. But she failed to understand the importance of his collection and, in turn, he cared little for her many appeals to get him in her bed. He needed it—the release. He was wound far too tight. There was pain there, as well. She could see it in his eyes. His human eyes. Yes, she knew his secret. It was her job to know these things, to read these things. Men—and women and everyone in between—came to her, often weighed down by such heavy secrets that could kill if they came to light. And Gaila knew how to relieve them of that burden. Oftentimes, yes, she would lay with them and they would seek enjoyment and peace in her arms. But sometimes, they simply needed to talk. And she'd listen.

Commander Spock had done neither. The _Kau_ had been aflame, dancing flames so hot she could feel them from a hundred yards away, and the Vulcan stood by on the stern of a nearby ship. Captain Pike had ordered men to retrieve what they could. Some never made it back. But they could not save it all and Pike was forced to cut the _Kau_ loose from Armada, to save the floating city. And the Commander said nothing. Did nothing. Nothing but watch the ship sink into its watery grave. When its crow's nest slipped below, he turned, took claim of the paltry remaining books and went to sleep.

The _Fletan_ landed on the large deck of the _Oekon_ —the largest ship of Armada. Gaila tightened her robe's sash around her waist and headed towards it, weaving in and out on the ships' decks.

*/*\\*

Nyota clung to the ropes, staring at the massive city of ships below. Armada was real. It wasn't just a story. Hundreds and hundreds of ships, roped together, anchored below, swaying together on the dark ocean.

The dirigible dipped slightly in the light breeze, moving closer and closer towards her new home. _I didn't run fast enough._ She ran for her life, only to be taken hostage by pirates—she'd heard of the stories; how could she not, but she believed them to be just that: stories—and press-ganged into joining their twisted Armada? No. She didn't want that. She didn't want to be a pirate. When she was younger, not much younger than she was now, she had big dreams. She went to university, a privilege not bestowed on just anyone of Dahhana'Kahr. She studied diligently. She wanted to be a linguist, to study the languages of the various races inhabiting An'rak. She didn't want to be a pirate.

She didn't want to be a criminal.

She clung to the edge of the dirigible, the ropes providing such little protection against a fall into the ocean below. Her skirts rustled in the wind, dancing around her legs; her hair swirled around her face, now dried but heavy with the ocean's salt. With her fingers clenching the ropes, she risked a look up. At the huge hot air balloons held to the flying ship with precious few ropes. Immediately, her eyes closed and she dropped her head, unable to watch anymore. Her corset felt tight. Or perhaps it was her anxiety. Behind her, she could hear the _vavesh-tor—his name is Kirk—_ whooping and hollering, chattering with the crew. He was not in the same position as she. He did not feel alarm; that was clear.

Of course, he wouldn't. Armada would be a blessing for him. How many more of his kind wandered the ships? He was among peers. Fellow criminals, who relished in the crimes. Soon, he would be joining them on their ships, seeking to terrorize hardworking, law-abiding An'rakian citizens.

Nyota was not among friends.

Behind her, someone approached. She turned her head, looking at them through a veil of wet hair. The priestess. She stood with an arm carefully linked with the Vulcan's. He guided her gingerly to stand beside Nyota and T'Pring let go of his arm. She reached for the same ropes Nyota grasped, her hands unsteady.

The Commander remained slightly behind them, his presence an unmoving stone. Nyota looked at him. He stood, silent, hands clasped behind his back, his weight shifting to counteract the dirigible's shifts. He was handsome, there was no denying. Soft features. Alabaster skin stretched across a wiry frame. The sharply pointed ears and arched eyebrows that she'd seen mostly in tintypes and illustrations in academic texts.

He met her gaze. And held it.

A challenge?

Nyota returned her gaze to Armada.

T'Pring turned. "I am grateful for your aid, Commander."

On the large ship's deck, Captain Pike waved at the Vulcan. "Spock! Come here."

"Of course, _reldai_. _Dif-tor heh smusma._ " Spock bowed his head and turned on his heel, disembarking the ship and approaching his captain.

"It has been twenty-seven years since I've heard my mother tongue." T'Pring shook her head. "To hear it after so long from a…mongrel is undesirable."

 _Mother tongue?_ Nyota turned to T'Pring. A Vulcan priestess? How did she miss it? The arched brows, sweeping under her veil. Of course. Her face flushed hot. She should not have needed to see her ears to know. She was a linguist. Studying language and culture—and she couldn't identity a Vulcan standing in front of her? But—the Shi'al Province was obliterated. The odds of meeting two Vulcans in one day—hell, she didn't think even one lived. "You're Vulcan, as well?"

"As well? I suppose for a non-Vulcan, that would be an accurate assessment." A brow rose. And T'Pring looked at Armada and its bustling activity on the _Oekon's_ deck, eyes settling on Spock, who stood stoically as Pike spoke animatedly. "This is the time that you stare then express condolences, is it not? For the loss of Shi'al? For the Suraks?"

Contrite, Nyota shuffled on her feet. "I'm—"

"—Sorry. Yes. I am aware."

Nyota cleared her throat. Her face still burned. Hotter. T'Pring was cold. Maybe even cruel. But that didn't feel right either. Ungrateful, perhaps. Who would refuse the aid of a person trying to help? Did she want to die? Truly? Why? She glanced at T'Pring's swollen belly. Did she even desire the child? _Desire is a human emotion._ No, she didn't desire it. She would do what is only logical.

 _Was it logical to not wish medical treatment?_ Nyota looked back at Armada. They would have to disembark. "Um, how did you end up so far away from the Temple?"

"That is none of your concern." T'Pring's voice was sharp with anger. _So, she feels after all._ The priestess touched her stomach.

"Sor—" Nyota fell silent.

"I suspect you are now awaiting my thanks for your actions on the _Khosaar_."

Nyota tore her eyes away from Pike and Spock, now standing in front of the growing line of press-ganged captives. The Vulcan held a board and parchment in his hand, scribbling with wet ink. "It's not—"

"You will not receive it."

Startled, Nyota stared. "I'm…I'm sorry?"

"You interfered with the gods' plan."

Nyota scoffed. Yes, this Vulcan was ungrateful. "You were ill. Do you think your gods' would really let your unborn child die? Or is your pride too much—"

"Live long and prosper." She turned away and disembarked, her movements unsteady. She swayed on her feet, nearly collapsing.

But Nyota knew better than to ask if she wanted to help. _Let her suffer on her own then._ Nyota let out a huff.

The svelte antelopian pirate—Robau's murderer, don't forget, Nyota—approached her. The _vavesh-tor_ must have been altered many years ago. His gait was smooth and graceful. He'd had the time to adjust to his new life. He pushed her forward. "Let's go."

She had no choice.

She disembarked and queued with the rest of the _Khosaar's_ survivors.

*/*\\*

Gaila crossed the ships to each the _Oekon_. The cool breeze brought forth goosebumps across her naked legs and arms and she regretted wearing only the thin robe.

Twenty new Armadans. That was what she counted. That was what they brought. _What about my—_

Captain Pike caught sight of her and smiled.

"Ah, my dear captain." Gaila held her hand out to him.

"Sweet Gaila." Pike took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. His eyes swept across her body. "Aren't you freezing in that?"

She smiled sardonically. That was all he had to say? "You betcha. Now, did you bring me my melons?"

Pike looked away from her, clearing his throat. "Uh, well—"

"You didn't. You specifically told me you would. But instead, all you bring is—" She waved her hand at the _Khosaar,_ now attached to Armada. "—the shittiest excuse of a ship _ever_ and not one fucking melon? I have clients, as you well know, seeing as you _are_ one. They have needs. And they tend to grow very angry when their cocks are on fire. I'm sure you can understand."

Pike's face grew red.

Gaila held back her laughter. Really, he could be such a godsforsaken prude. Except she knew the truth. The dirty litany of words he spouted every godsdamn time she was on her knees before him. "Well, what do you have to say?" There was great power in knowing people when they were at their most vulnerable, when they were caught in the waves of undulating pleasure. She relished it, there was no point in denying that.

"Yes. Ah, forgive me, Miss Gaila. We were forced to change our plans."

"Meaning?"

He glanced at his Commander. Gaila followed.

Spock stood in front of a young woman—gorgeous, Gaila thought, if a little weather-beaten—clutching his board and parchment.

In trembling hands.

 _Oh, no_.

"Name," Spock intoned.

"Nyota Uhura," the beauty said, her arms wrapped around her waist. She was one of two new female citizens. Gaila eyed the priestess beside the girl. No, he wouldn't be interested in a pregnant girl—that priestess, she had pain.

"Any specialties?"

"Linguistics," Nyota said.

"Very well. You will be assigned to the _Khosaar_ when its conversion is complete."

The girl had wet eyes. "And what will I be doing?"

"Assisting me." He wiped his brow.

Oh, no.

Gaila stormed toward him. "Commander Spock. A word?"

He sighed. _How quaint. An irritated Vulcan_. "Very well."

He stepped away from Nyota and the priestess, the board falling to his side, moving out of earshot. Gaila took in his appearance. Sallow skin. Gray sunken eyes. Sweat-soaked brow.

"How long have you been in _plak-tow_?"

"How—we do not—I have not entered _plak-tow_." Spock's face flushed a deep green. Loss of emotional control. Yes. She was right. "How have you come to know—" he glanced around them, his voice dropping to a whisper. "—the blood fever?"

Gaila sighed, crossing her arms. "I'm a Courtesan. A prostitute. A whore. A toffer. I believe they call me a _kosu'guvik_ in your dead language. Whatever you want to call me. It's my job to know sex things. So you haven't entered it _yet._ How long until you do? A week? A day? Two days?"

"It is not your concern."

"If you need my help, I am more than willing to help." She smiled. "I've never had a Vulcan before. Or at least—wait, no. There was that one." She waved a hand, dismissing it. She stepped closer. "Could be fun."

He shifted his eyes behind her. She glanced back. He stared at the two women.

"The priestess is in no condition to help you," Gaila said. The Vulcan priestess was ill. Hurting. It was clear.

"I have no interest in Miss T'Pring. And I doubt she has an interest in me."

"Then—" Gaila spun back around to face him. "You're going to ask a human woman to be your sex slave?"

"Do not be vulgar."

Gaila shook her head. "No. You're the one being vulgar. Just fuck me and be done with it." She walked away, moving to the two women. "Hey, girls. You're coming with me."

T'Pring bristled. "I am a priestess of Valdena. Not a whore. I will not follow you."

Gaila laughed. "Oh, honey. Nobody said you were." She stepped between the two, looping her arms around them. "Now, you girls and I, we're going to have a lot of fun."

Spock would not hurt the human. She would make sure of that.

*/*\\*

 _Rehkuh'gad, 28th of Re'T'Khuta, Armada_

 _I never made it to N'Klan-ne. The_ Khosaar _was attacked. The captain was killed. And I, I don't know. They took us away. Took the ship. They took us to Armada. Did you know it was real? You always told me it wasn't. That it was just a folktale. There was no way something like that could actually exist. A city of floating ships in the middle of the Voroth Sea. Of course, it couldn't be real._

 _Hundreds and hundreds of ships—bedraggled and clean—strapped together by fraying ropes. It shouldn't exist. But it does. How does it?_

 _I am scared. Scared is too vague a term. It doesn't do the heart-pounding, the gut-wrenching overwhelming terror that threatens to take over every waking moment. These people are criminals and whores, the very dredges of society._

 _It was fun to see them with you. To navigate their trenches to join you in your bed, but I knew I was safe. That you would keep me safe._

 _Now, I am alone. And my only companions are an Orion whore and a pregnant Vulcan priestess._

 _A Vulcan. Two Vulcans, actually. There_ are _survivors. But they are nothing like I imagined. Cold. Harsh. They aren't the majestic race I wanted them to be. It's rather disappointing._

 _I want to go home. I hated it. Despised how I was watched by my father. Hated how Dahhana'Kahr was dank and dirty and full of secrets. But it was a place I knew. I knew the rules. I knew the game. But you took that from me. You and your monster._

 _I think I hate you._

 _I hate what you did._

 _I hate that you ran. That you left me behind._

 _But then, sometimes I am thankful for that._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"He brings new people but not one fucking melon." Gaila huffed, pushing Nyota and T'Pring into her cabin and slamming the door shut behind her. "He can find a new _ship_ for his pet Vulcan but no melon for me?" She threw off her thin robe. It landed near the foot of her large messy bed. She stormed across the room, opening her armoire. Shoving the hanging clothes to the left then right, she scowled. "Does he not understand I have a very important job in this city? Does he not care?" She pulled out another robe—slightly thicker and longer than the other ones—and turned around, shaking it out.

Both women were standing awkwardly. Nyota's eyes were skyward. T'Pring's, glued to the door. Gaila rolled hers. "Oh, please. Like neither of you have ever seen a pussy and tits before." She wrapped the robe around her body and tied the sash.

"I do not wish to remain here," T'Pring said. She clasped her hands together in front her burgeoning stomach.

Gaila eyed it. Oh, what story lay behind that development, she wondered. Pregnant women were a common sight in her line of work. A risk of the job, so to speak. Many a Courtesan, when she was training, fell ill with morning sickness and lethargy. Sometimes, they'd bounce back quickly, returning to their duties. As though nothing had ever been amiss. Sometimes, well, it was an open secret as their bellies grew rotund and their beds remained empty. Sometimes they disappeared all together.

The Guild was no stranger to young urchins running through the halls. But the customers, well, they weren't as fond. Killed the mood, wondering if one of those little bastards belonged to you.

"Uh, yeah, I don't want to stay here either," the human said, holding her chin up high. Her lips quivered.

Gaila nearly snorted. She was adorable. _Wonder if she'd be up for a little fun._ But she quickly vanquished that thought. No. She couldn't. Not when she was trying to protect her from that very thing. As tempting, as fun as it'd probably be, she'd be no better than that stupid horny Vulcan.

Spock wanted her. Gaila knew that she wouldn't be able to protect her for long. Not once the _plak tow_ took over. Aside from the permanent stick up his ass, Gaila liked him. Usually prudish to a fault—current circumstances notwithstanding—he could be relied upon to be kind. Vulcans lived by logic and kindness. And a strong moral compass. Governed by their precious Surak, his teachings, and his royal descendants. Intensely loyal, they wed early and stayed with one another for life. Gaila had heard of some kind of mental bond, through her connections at the Guild, but no one outside of the Shi'al Province knew the details.

And Shi'al was no more.

Oh, no, she had no problem with Spock. And Vulcans. Until that stupid _pon farr_ came into play. It would have been something that would have been taken care of by the Vulcans amongst themselves. But Spock was alone. And unwed. And _pon farr_ was dangerous. For both the Vulcan and his mate.

Gaila had had one Vulcan in her time as a Courtesan. He hadn't been under _plak tow_ , but he had been suffering from Bindii Syndrome. The emotional control was gone. And all that was left was the primal instincts of the days before Surak. It was similar to _plak tow_ as she understood it.

It had been the most difficult client she had. She didn't wish that upon anyone.

Gaila sighed. "Look, I know you both don't want to be here. But in case you missed it, you're surrounded by pirates now. And trust me when I tell you that they aren't to be trusted." She shrugged. "Well, most of them, anyway." There were always a few exceptions. Pavel, most notably. Spock, usually. Sulu—well, they weren't his type. Pike, he could be a pig sometimes, but she didn't think he'd intentionally try anything they didn't want or ask for. But some of those _vavesh-tor_ they picked up today—now, they could be dangerous. Unknown variables.

"But you're safe here," Nyota said. Her wide eyes darted across the cabin.

Gaila had spent a lot of time decorating her space. It needed to be perfect, warm, inviting, sensual for her clients. Warm colors. Heavy fabrics hang from the ceiling. The bed was large and covered with the finest cottons and silks she could find on Armada. It wasn't anything compared to her place in the Guild, but she was here now. Armada had some fine craftsmen, some talented weavers, but they didn't always have access to the best materials. Unless they stole it.

Did they manage anything from the _Khosaar_? She'd have to find out.

"That's because I've earned my reputation. My protection comes from Captain Pike. If he wasn't in charge, I'd be easy prey just like you. Hell, if he wasn't in charge, this whole place would be a bloodbath. The only difference is that I've had the most important of them in my bed. But you two—you're fresh blood. Well, except you, priestess. Not many people on board have interest in a pregnant lady. Count yourself lucky."

Nyota dropped her head in her hands, collapsing on the bed.

Gaila rolled her eyes. Were all humans so dramatic?

The priestess arched an eyebrow. "It is illogical to steal something when it can easily be obtained from others." She tilted her head towards Gaila.

Gaila laughed and pointed to herself. "Oh, honey, I'm too expensive for most of them. If they want a dirty fuck, they'd go about five ships down and to the left." The brothel was a wasteland of disease and drugs. She cringed. She'd been there once, when she first arrived. Never again.

T'Pring looked away. "I wish to meditate."

"Of course." Gaila motioned to a group of pillows she had in the corner on the ground. A little area she'd set up for herself. A shrine of sorts, for the gods. The _Reah_ was not worth the hassle of traversing the ropes and rickety bridges for five minutes of prayer.

"You offer tithes to Valdena the Maiden?" T'Pring asked, brow raised.

On Gaila's shrine, a small statue representing the goddess Valdena. Goddess of love, beauty, joy. And purity.

Gaila shrugged. "Of course, I do." Love, beauty. Joy. Why would she not worship Valdena? Gaila narrowed her eyes. _Should I be offended?_ Of course a _priestess_ would assume that she was nothing more than a vapid whorish, well, whore who didn't believe in piety. Of course. A hypocritical priestess, but who was she to say these things? Sure, she'd experience many a priest and priestess outside the walls of her former Guild, damning each and every one of them for being there. Fucking hypocrites, the lot of them; Gaila experienced many of them in her bed as well.

"Very well. The Maiden is very forgiving of sinful transgressions." T'Pring turned away, kneeling before the shrine. She laced her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes.

 _Like yours?_ Gaila eyed her for a moment. She turned her attention to Nyota, still seated on the edge of the bed, head in hands. Gaila knelt in front her. "Hey, are you okay?" she whispered.

Nyota shook her head and choked on a small sob. "I want to go home. I never should have left."

Gaila reached out and took Nyota's hands in hers. "Well, why did you?"

Nyota looked away. "I was afraid for my life."

She nodded. _Oh, you little bird._ "That seems to be a damn good reason to leave." She ran her thumbs across the backs of Nyota's hands. Her skin was soft—clearly hands of a woman who'd lived a comfortable life. Wealthy, probably. Sheltered, most definitely. Gaila sighed. She'd seen this before. Girls bored of the trappings of wealth falling for the wrong guy or falling into the wrong crowd, thinking they needed a little more adventure in their lives. A lot of times they have no choice but to crawl to the brothels and beg employment. No, she wasn't going to let that happen to Nyota. "Be careful with the Commander, Nyota."

"What?"

"Just—just be careful." It would scare her. If she told her how the Vulcan wanted her in his bed. How he wanted nothing more than to spread her legs and thrust inside. And, if terror reared its ugly head, Nyota might let him. No. She couldn't tell her. And she couldn't let her.

And maybe she was wrong. Maybe Spock had a better grasp of his condition than she thought. But she knew she wouldn't be able to keep him away from Nyota all the time. She couldn't. Not when he'd already requested her presence specifically, in his banal pointless search for whatever he was looking for. Vulcan-y, obviously. Because Vulcans were nothing if not obsessed with themselves and their own self-diagnosed superiority. _We have a king who can control the energies of the world! The gods have chosen us._ Oh, please. _Had._ You fucking _had_ a king. Now, he's dead. Now, you're a dying race. All but extinct. Where was their superiority then, when their home was swallowed up by the sea?

Gaila climbed to her feet. "Come on. Let's get some rest."

*\\*/*

The silver colored birds flew overhead. Despite their massive size, Kirk had never paid them much attention before. They were just a part of An'rakian life. Never seen anywhere but near the water, where the sun's morning rays bounced off their wings, casting huge glares. Large, but largely nonthreatening, the birds spent their days diving into the ocean and stabbing fish with their long, sharp beaks. Docile, even near people.

The large mechanical spikes twitched on his back. He looked more like them now than he'd care to admit, with his own pair of monstrous wings. But he'd never be viewed as docile. He would never be approached or welcomed. _Monsters! The lot o' ya. Worthless._ He wanted to scream. He needed to scream.

The silver wings jerked on his back, one spike flailing at his face, the sharp point cutting his cheek. He sighed, brushing away the small speck of blood. Months after that terrifying night and he still could not control them.

But he could not remove them, either. Not when they were so intrinsically linked to his nervous system, to his organs. All done in an effort to ensure that the _vavesh-tor_ could not seek a willing doctor, a self-hating, apologetic thaumaturge to remove them. What good is eternal punishment if it could be reversed?

He was now and forever a freak. A monster. A grotesque creation of some mad scientist who, no doubt, received a sizable payment for his work. Who didn't even question the work he'd been given. Didn't ask if the punishment was just. Didn't ask if a fair trial had been given. Just laughed manically, exclaiming that there was a new type of remaking he'd been dying to try. Oh, can he please give it a try?

A wave of hot fury crashed over Kirk. He dreamed about it. Sometimes. Often. About catching the admiral in his bare hands and letting his unnatural spikes jab themselves through his eyes and out the back of his skull. And he'd laugh. And he'd relish. Sometimes, he'd bathe in the bastard's blood. Those were the dreams that woke him with waves of retching, sweat drenching him.

Gods, maybe he was a monster.

He didn't even know if she was okay. Or alive.

Surely, she was alive. Surely, her own father didn't not kill her.

Kirk's human fist clenched, his nails digging red crescents into his palm, and his _le-matya_ claw dripped more of the green poison.

"I'm going to need you to control those things."

His eyes opened and he released his fist, spinning around. Captain Pike. Kirk sighed. "Sorry." Of course, he'd be judged on his horrific transformation here, too.

The pirate shrugged. "I get it. I do." He walked up to Kirk, standing beside him along the makeshift bridge connecting two ships. "But I've got hundreds of folks here that rely on this being a safe place. I cannot afford to have one—one Remade become a loose cannon because he can't control his new limbs."

Kirk looked away, staring at the ocean below the bridge. "Sorry. I don't know how."

"It'll take time. And practice." He pointed out a _vavesh-tor_ three ships away—the same one that had killed Robau. "You should have seen Hikaru Sulu when he first arrived. He was like a baby deer on those legs. Falling constantly. There were many times he needed to be saved from the sea because he couldn't control his movements and landed in the water. He even begged me to kill him. But I refused."

"What did he do?" Only the most heinous of offenses warranted this. _That's not always true, though, is it?_

Pike hesitated, his mouth opening then closing. He shrugged his shoulders.

Kirk chuckled once, glancing at Pike then at Sulu. "Was it really that bad?"

"He didn't kill anyone. Didn't rape. He didn't torture and maim a child, if that's what you're thinking. Sulu is a good man."

Kirk remained silent. But Sulu did kill a man. Shot a man in cold blood. He looked back at Sulu. Could he still be good if he murdered someone for a ship? Maybe Robau wasn't so good, Kirk thought. After all, he had volunteered to send the _vavesh-tor_ to N'Klan. That place was a death sentence disguised as a labor camp. No one would cry if a _vavesh-tor_ died there. Or anywhere for that matter.

The antelopian man laughed at something a companion said.

"He fell in love with a man. Brought great shame to his father's name."

Kirk's eyes grew wide. He didn't expect that. But— "His own father is responsible for his mutilation?"

Pike laughed sardonically. "Aren't they always?" He cleared his throat. "It's just the way things are in the human capital. The Empire."

"Innocent people are often the ones in the Dahhana'Kahr's cross hairs." Kirk looked at Pike. "Is that what you're saying?" He caught sight of a woman with in the distance. At a makeshift fish market. A long reptilian tail extended behind her. Mechanical hands caught and released fish tossed to her. "And what about her? I suppose she's the victim of an angry husband who caught her in bed with her illicit lover?"

Pike laughed. "Her? Oh, hell no. Remember a few years ago, when that noble family was found mutilated and the murderer found a bathtub of their blood?"

Kirk nodded. Of course, he did. A servant gone mad, said some people. Jealous and greedy for what the wealthy had and she did not. Jealous of her lord's family. His wife. Others defended her. The nobles are nothing more than scum, dressed in fancy dresses and jewels and perfumes, but scum nonetheless. She'd been assaulted by the lord. He deserved what he got. As for the others? Well, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, they say. He looked at the woman again. Then back at Pike. "You—you mean, she's the one who—"

Pike nodded. "Oh, yes. You know what she told the Militia when they arrested her?"

"What?"

"She said they laughed at her."

Kirk gaped at Pike. "Are you serious? Then why the fuck is she here?" If this was supposed to be a safe place, then why would an unstable woman with potentially dangerous weapons on her arms be allowed to walk freely?

Kirk caught himself. Shame coursed through him. He was the same as her.

Pike sighed. "Everyone deserves a second chance. But, sure, you can bet that I had reservations about her. Would she kill innocent people here on Armada? I had half a mind to ship her to N'Klan myself."

"Why didn't you?"

"Commander Spock."

"The Vulcan?"

Pike nodded.

Kirk shook his head. "How—how did you end up with—"

The Captain chuckled. "How did a Vulcan end up here?"

"Yeah." Vulcans were aloof, preferring to stick with their own kind. Only trotting out their King every once in a while. No doubt that sort of mentality resulted in the demise of the Vulcan race. They were a dying race. Soon to be extinct.

Pike sighed, shaking his head. "That's not my story to tell. And it took far too many years to earn his trust. Hell, sometimes I'm still not sure I have it."

Kirk looked out at Armada, finding the newly acquired _Khosaar_. On its deck, the woman who'd judged him—what was her name? Naomi? He heard her say something to the Vulcan yesterday when he was writing their names down. And their jobs. Kirk got maintenance— _are you fucking kidding me?_ He deserved more than to mop the decks and empty chamber pots. Pointy-eared bastard.

The woman stood with the wind blowing her skirts and hair. Behind her, the Vulcan approached.

How could a Vulcan end up a pirate?

*/*\\*

The waves bumped the against the ship's bow. And the cool wind swept across Nyota's skin, tickling. She rubbed her arms, tucking her cooling fingers under her shivering arms. _I want to go home._ But she had no home. Was her father aware of her absence now? Was there a warrant out there, a reward for her capture? Evading the Militia. Running.

She looked guiltier than hell.

Her father was ashamed of her. He had to be. He had to do damage control. Nyota Uhura is no daughter of mine, he'd say to the journalists, who would be quick to jot that down in their notepads.

And the morning papers would side with the powerful professor and diplomat. The man whose own daughter betrayed him to lay in the bed of a known psychopath. The stupid whore. No longer a daughter of the acclaimed Dr. Abasi Uhura, the girl can go live in the brothels of Kafel Alley with the _vavesh-tor_ for all he cared.

Leonard had been poor judgment. Nyota knew that now. Brash. Rude. And far too old for her. But he was also sharply intelligent. And kind-hearted. She'd once seen him take the jacket off his own back and give it to a recently converted Remade—an older man, with gray hair and deep wrinkles, blood and drool still dripping from his converted lower jaw, full of gnashing black teeth—despite the ice that coated his own hair and his shivering body.

Psychotic? She wasn't sure.

Not when she stood on the _Khosaar_ once again and watched as men and women—obvious criminals who sported wings and fangs and claws and limbs of vile animals—gutted the ship. One by one they disappeared below deck, stacks of books clasped in their arms, and then returned, books gone but supplies in hand. Food, clothes—those were kept. Gunpowder, it disappeared into a new store on a different ship. Chests—passengers and sailors' belongings—were thrown into the water. We can't afford the extra weight, a pirate explained to her when she stormed across the deck, grabbing an intricate and delicate painted portrait. That belonged to someone. It was treasured. Couldn't they tell how much so with the delicate cloth wrapped around it, the solid rope tying it off?

 _Not our problem._

Into the water.

Captain Robau had been tossed into the ocean.

Her eyes stung with tears.

They didn't even care that he'd been alive. That he had been a kind man. That he was just doing his job. That he tried to deliver his passengers as safely as possible.

No, of course, they didn't care. They were monsters. It was as clear as their vile unnatural limbs.

Behind her, the steady _clomp-clomp-clomp_ of boots against the deck. "Miss Uhura." Commander Spock stopped beside her.

She turned her head, looking at him through a veil of windblown hair. He stood silent, hands still clasped behind his back, his weight shifting as necessary to counteract the ocean's waves. She stared at him. He was handsome, there was no denying. Soft features, alabaster skin stretched across a wiry frame. Physically stunning, if not cold like marble. _Be careful with the Commander._ Gaila's warning. But why? He was a Vulcan. He was nonviolent, a follower of Surak's teachings.

 _Nonviolent? He's a Commander of pirates._ Her stomach rolled. What would a Vulcan have to do to end up here? She glanced away. Was he captured and press-ganged like she was? Or did he come willingly, blood staining his hands?

She cut her eyes at him again. Gaila warned her about him for a reason. What reason would the Courtesan have for telling Nyota to be careful?

He didn't seem dangerous. In fact, she—

"You find me attractive." He turned his head to look at her.

The nonchalance of his statement, his words, they made her blush, her cheeks darkening with embarrassment. She jerked her head forward, dropping her gaze to her shaking hands.

"I have embarrassed you. I apologize. That was not my intention."

"Then what was your intention?" She peeked at him through the sheet of her hair.

"Captain Pike has informed me that it is illogical to hide the truth. I am inclined to agree with him. People spend too much time—" he paused, "—dancing around what they really think. It is an illogical waste of time."

She was silent for a moment, then said, "I suppose you're right."

He nodded, a slight tilt of his head. "Indeed." A release of breath. "In discretion of the truth, I feel compelled to inform you that I find you to be physically pleasing attributes, as well. They have completed their task." He took a step forward. "Come along, Miss Uhura. We may now begin."

*/*\\*

Gaila slammed the door shut behind her, cutting off the ocean breeze. She took a deep breath and threw her retrieved parcels on her bed. She'd requested more bedding, more olive oil and grapes and _nariclar_ , a oft-desired fruit from Raal, from the _Lem-Reeng_ market. She was surprised when the twitchy blue-skinned shopkeeper had the goods she'd requested. The gods knew she hated dealing with that damned Andorian with her one antenna and eye patch, like she was living in a novel about treasure hunts and parrots. Fuck, she even walked with a limp. How long before the shopkeeper went to the resident doctor and asked for her very own peg leg?

Gaila shook her head, rolling her eyes. She didn't need to deal with her again for at least three weeks. She looked at T'Pring, still seated at her shrine. The Vulcan priestess' eyes were still closed. Her hands still rest across her bulging midsection. She sighed. The woman had not moved since last night.

She cleared her throat.

Nothing.

Gaila glanced at the small sundial in her window. It was nearing noon. And she had a full day ahead of her. She cleared her throat again.

"T'Pring."

Still nothing.

A groan and Gaila moved to the priestess. She dropped to her knees beside her. The priestess was physically stunning. Perhaps even more so than Nyota. High arching brows. Large almond eyes. Cheekbones Gaila would kill for. She reached out and pushed the veil aside, revealing the delicate point of her ears.

T'Pring reacted, jerking her head away, a gasp on her lips.

Gaila pulled her hand away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

T'Pring said nothing.

Gaila sat, curling her legs beneath her. She glanced at T'Pring's stomach. "So, who's the father?"

The priestess bristled. "That is none of your concern."

Gaila smiled. An illicit affair, maybe? "Awfully dangerous in your line of work to become 'with child.'"

T'Pring said nothing. Her eyes closed and she took a deep breath.

"That's one thing we have in common. How dangerous babies—"

"We have nothing in common, whore."

Gaila rolled her eyes. "Oh, honey. You think you're strong. Tough. Think you can hurt me. But I've been a whore practically my entire life. I've been spat upon. Slapped. Bruised. Insulted. Ridiculed. All of it just tells me one thing."

T'Pring turned her head towards her, face still. "And what is that?"

"That the ones flinging the insults tend to be the ones who need the most help."

T'Pring arched a brow but said nothing further. She returned to her meditation, eyes closing.

Gaila stood, brushing her robe off. She sighed. Another look at her sundial. "Look. I need you to move. Go away. Do something other than sit there. I have clients coming soon and they don't much like an audience." Her eyes roamed T'Pring's form. The pure white robes—a sign of the Maiden's priestesses' purity—were dark with soot and dirt. And green. Shiny green seeping through the back. "Oh, gods, what—"

T'Pring opened her eyes, springing to her feet. "It is not your concern." She moved away from the Courtesan. "Just as I had told that human. Do not concern yourself—"

"What did they do to you?" Gaila whispered. "The priests. They did it, didn't they? When they denounced you?"

T'Pring looked away.

"Please. Just let me help you." Gaila reached a hand out, gesturing to her bed. "Sit. Let me help."

"Do not concern yourself with me. I shall leave you to your…duties."

"No. The men can wait. You come first. Sit."

T'Pring glanced at the bed, Gaila, and finally the door. "Very well." She moved to the bed, sitting on the edge.

Gaila climbed the bed behind her. She placed her hands on T'Pring's shoulders, fingers underneath the edges of her robes. "May I?"

T'Pring nodded. And Gaila gently moved the robes off her shoulders, letting them pool around T'Pring's waist. In the mirror, across from the bed, Gaila saw T'Pring's eyes close at the sight of her naked chest and protruding belly. She looked away from the mirror to T'Pring's back and couldn't keep in her gasp.

"Oh, gods. How could they do this to you?"

T'Pring's back was a mass of green gashes and white pus seeping down.

"I violated the decree. And became with child. They were within their means to exact the punishment as they saw fit."

"Monsters," Gaila hissed. She reached across her bed to her end table and grabbed a wet cloth from the water bowl. She ran it gently across T'Pring's back; the priestess hissed but made no other sound. When she was finished, Gaila grabbed a dry towel and patted her damaged skin gently. Across her room, she found bandages and wrapped the wounds. "You need new clothing. Your robes are ruined."

T'Pring shook her head. "I am not—I do not desire to relinquish my faith." She pulled the blood-stained robes over her shoulders and refastened and retied them. She looked in the mirror.

Gaila sat behind her and peered over her shoulder, catching her gaze in the mirror. "What are you going to do? When the baby comes?"

"I do not know. I never desired a child."

*/*\\*

Pavel twisted his shirt button in his fingers, the threads unraveling. He stood on the _Lem-Reeng_ , Armada's main market. He understood his location. He knew the floating city's layout. Memorized it. Visualized it in his mind's eye. He'd been here for five years. Of course, he knew it.

But the winds had come. And the city floated. Moved. Breathed.

It was never the same day to day.

And he'd been speaking with Gaila. And lost his orientation.

And his thaumaturgical eyes were useless.

He closed his eyes. Let the sea of blues and reds and greens vanish with a snap.

He took a step forward.

And slammed into a pillar.

He opened his eyes. A muddled red blob with svelte legs and a broad chest. "Wery sorry," Pavel mumbled, his voice wobbling. He'd spent many a year trying to perfect his accent. He'd carefully hidden away the Aba'Kurian lilts and turns under the more bland, acceptable accent of the Xialian capital. Not successfully. Never completely. The Dahhanan accent was but a mere veil, easily pushed aside by the strong biting utterances of his native voice.

The muddle blob said nothing but hissed as it moved away.

Hikaru Sulu.

Pavel knew that quiet voice, full of anger. The man had never been fond of Pavel. Though they'd never shared a drink, a conversation. Sulu wasn't fond of many people.

A result of his conversion, maybe?

Pavel shook it off. Closed his eyes and opened them again.

Five years. Five fucking years. He should have mastered these new eyes by now. He should be able to make sense of the shapes and blobs surrounding him. Pike told him it'd take time. It'd take practice.

But what the hell did he know? Walking about Armada with his natural human eyes. His human body. No changes. No remaking. He knew nothing.

Pike could never understand the fear that swept over Pavel whenever his world plunged into complete darkness. Only to flicker back to greens and blues and reds. Pulsating colors.

Five years ago, Pavel was on his way to becoming the youngest member of the Xialian Fleet. Navigation was his specialty. Now, he couldn't even navigate across a ship's deck without running into something or someone.

Pavel took a quick shallow breath. And another one. Where was he? He clamped his jaw. He would not call out. Not for Gaila, not for anyone. She'd come if he did. But he couldn't keep coming to her. He had to be a nuisance for her. The scared boy who cried too much and clung to her skirts like a child.

That wasn't her job. He was only one of her clients. _A_ lover out of many. She was not his mother. She was not his.

She pitied him.

The kid with the mechanical eyes. Blind, but not.

A fire burned in his stomach. And a white fear clutched his heart. He'd been laid out on a table—dirty with rusty red blood—his hands and legs strapped down with heavy thick leather. A stick shoved his mouth.

And a red-hot poker aimed for his eyes.

He'd screamed and screamed.

And they'd chanted and they cawed and they stuck those metal things in his sockets.

And then a _bang_! Another one! And he'd felt warm liquid on his face. And a gentle hand on his arm.

Pavel shook his head.

He would not call for Captain Pike either. That man had already done too much for him. And sacrificed too much for a boy he didn't even know.

He found the sea. A vastness of blue, even with his unnatural sight. And moved towards it, fingers outstretched. He found the rope barrier and wrapped his fingers tightly around it, feeling the rough fibers dig into his calloused hand. Just follow it. He'd find his bearings soon. He'd find his home soon.

*\\*/*

The Commander opened the door to the former Captain's cabin. He stepped aside. "Please, enter."

Nyota followed behind him, her arms wrapped around her waist. _What will happen behind these closed doors?_ Bookshelves now lined the walls, filled with books—ancient, with curled frayed edges and loose bindings. Two desks in the middle of the room, both lit with lanterns, casting a warm hue across the worn wood. It was passable for a library.

Except she was not a librarian.

And there wasn't much need for languages when you were more interested in taking, not negotiating.

"Why am I here?"

Spock turned to her. And without the sun's beams washing out his face, he looked ill. The dark shadows were thick below his sunken eyes. His cheeks, gaunt. His gaze raked across her body—she felt uncomfortable, shifting her weight—before settling on her face. "To assist. As I am in need of such."

Nyota shook her head. "You said that. But why me? Why take the ship? Why kill Captain Robau?" Her heart pounded.

"It is unfortunate that Mister Sulu chose to employ violence when it was, perhaps, unnecessary."

"Perhaps?"

He tilted his head, nodding. "You are correct. Completely unnecessary. However, it is possible Mister Sulu felt he had no other recourse. It was unlikely the captain would have willingly given up his vessel. Though it would have been the logical course of action, as it would have saved his life. But humans, I have learned, seldom engage in logic."

Unlikely? Nyota's jaw dropped. How could this Vulcan have even known? Robau was not even given a choice before Sulu lodged a bullet in his brain.

Spock moved to a bookcase, his body brushing past hers. "As to your previous query, you have been chosen because I am in need of a linguist." He picked up a small stack of books. His hands trembled under the small weight of the three well-worn tomes. He tossed them on the table. "How versed are you in Ancient Vulcan?"

"Uh—" Nyota cleared her throat, looking up at him. He was standing so close. "Um, passable." Barely, she left unsaid. She dropped her eyes. Gaila warned her. Why? And Ancient Vulcan? It was not taught at University, not when the professors believed there to be little use for it in the world for today's young linguists. Even modern Vulcan—all but extinct, now—was not taught. No need. But, fascinated with the intricacies and unusual poetry of modern Vulcan, Nyota had sought to learn the origins of the language. Her desire had only increased when the Shi'al Province had been decimated. But sources were hard to come by. Even harder today. She glanced at the books on the desk. These were Ancient Vulcan texts? How had he acquired them? What was he doing with them?

He took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. His eyes closed and he stepped away from her. "Very well. Please, begin." He sat at the other desk, placing a small book in front of him, opening it.

"What—what am I looking for?"

"Please, begin," he repeated. He placed a trembling hand to his forehead, swiping the sweat that had gathered.

"Are you all right?"

Spock gripped the edges of the desk, his knuckles whitening. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Please—"

"Do you need a doctor?"

He slammed his fists across the desktop—Nyota jumped—and opened his eyes, locking onto her. "Must I repeat myself?!"

She backed away several feet, her eyes wide and wet. She dropped her eyes to the ground.

His chair scraped across the floor. "I apologize, Miss Uhura."

Nyota glanced at him again. He stood with his hands behind his back.

"I did not mean to frighten you." He swallowed heavily. "It would seem you are correct to have concerns. I will leave."

"You don't have—"

"Yes. I do." He motioned to the books on the desks. "Just—please, translate the texts. I must meditate."

He rushed from the cabin, his boots clomping loudly against the deck.

*\\*/*

 _Kehkuh'gad, 29th of Re'T'Khuta, Armada_

 _I am a prisoner. There is no escape. Nothing but the endless Sea stretches all around me, its cold moist air sticking in my lungs. I am drowning._

 _This is your fault._

 _I wonder if my parents wonder where I am. Or if they care. After all, their daughter whored herself out to the mad scientist. Maybe she got what was coming to her._

 _We've all heard the tales of Armada. The floating pirate city. I know that if I could tap down the fear that threatens to overtake me, I'd be in awe. So many races. So many languages. I could be useful here._

 _Could._

 _I am in a sea of criminals and pirates and whores. The Vulcan Commander has me in his cabin with his books. Books he shoved at me with no explanation before retreating to meditate._

 _No. I should be interested, regardless of his intentions. These are the works of lost Shi'al Province. Of a lost people. So many secrets hidden in these tomes. If I could translate them. But Ancient Vulcan is nothing like modern Vulcan (but aren't they all Ancient? Extinct?). Too raw. Too passionate. The words, I can understand. To a degree. The meaning, I cannot. Passion in a Vulcan is too alien. Too…it feels wrong. At odds with Spock. With T'Pring._

*/*\\*

Nyota placed her quill on the unstable desk and rubbed her forehead. A headache was forming. How long had she been left here to translate while the Vulcan retreated?

The swirls and curls of Ancient Vulcan bled together. Modern Vulcan delineated the words precisely. The words always looked the same, as if one of those strange mechanical creations in Ta'vistar created them. These ones. They were born of passion, anger, jubilation. Large looping circles. Tight slanted curls. Scribbles and scratches. And words she didn't understand.

 _Sirshos'im._

There was terror around that word. Each and every time it appeared, the writer's words trembled. What did it mean?

" _Umph!_ "

Nyota gasped, her head jerking up towards the door.

A man, young with unnatural eyes, clung to one of the many bookshelves lining the walls.

"Who are you?" Nyota asked, getting to her feet. She backed into the corner. Another _vavesh-tor_. What did this one do?

"Is this the _Glan'Fan_?" he asked, strange eyes darting around the room.

Nyota shook her head. "No."

" _Derrmo_!" His eyes locked on her. Then dropped. "Oy! _Prosti_ , _prosti_." He paused. "Sorry. My apologies, Miss." He looked around the room again, clearing his throat. "I appear to be…I am lost." His cheeks flushed.

"Who are you?" Nyota asked.

The man stood straight, his hands reaching for the books he'd disturbed. "I have not been in this library." He turned to her. "It is lovely." He shook his head. "I think. It must be. Library in Aba'Kur is most lovely. But I have not been there since—" he paused, his voice trailing. He opened one of the books, stared at the words on the page. Nyota's brow rose. Did this man understand Ancient Vulcan?

He looked at her. "This book is empty."

Her brows furrowed. "I'm sorry—"

He closed it. Threw it back on the shelf. "No. No, it is not. I just can no longer—" He cleared his throat. "My apologies, Miss. I must be leaving. Perhaps Miss Gaila is out and willing assist me home."

He turned to leave, but Nyota reached out—why? She didn't know—and touched his arm. "Wait."

He froze. "Yes?"

Nyota grabbed the book he'd thrown and opened it. The ancient flow of passion and anger was etched on the page. "Can you—you can't see the words?"

He shook his head. "I cannot. I cannot see the words. I cannot see your face. And I cannot see my way home."

"What can you see?"

"It does not matter. Nothing of use. I am useless."

Nyota's heart ached. This _vavesh-tor_ was young. Painfully so. And the scars around his eyes—they weren't fresh either. By the gods, he must have been twelve, thirteen when it happened. What terrible thing could he have done at such a young age to warrant this?

"Fifteen."

"I'm sorry?"

"People always get silent when they stare. It is the scars. And the eyes. I know. And they always want to know when. So, I tell them. Fifteen. I was fifteen."

"Fif—fifteen?" It was still terrible to think of a boy, barely a teenager, becoming this. "Why? What did you do?"

He stiffened, pulling his arm away from her. "It does not matter. I apologize for disturbing you. I will leave now."

Nyota watched him leave.

*\\*/*

— _I had a visitor. A_ vavesh-tor _. With terrifying eyes. What could he have done to warrant such punishment? He wasn't Dahhanan. He tried. With his accent. But it was stiff. Unnatural. Aba'Kur. That's where I believe he's from. I upset him. Which is a dangerous thing to do in this place. He may not have the animal limbs or the sharp implants jutting from his body. But he did something. Something dangerous and highly illegal._

 _I need to be careful here. A volatile Vulcan. A_ vavesh-tor _named Kirk. And now this one. How long will I survive this place?_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Gaila laughed at the man underneath her. She collapsed on top of him, pressing her breasts against his chest. "I assume it was good?" It was, of course. Gaila Harrad-Sar, formerly of the Suraan Guild, never gave less than her best.

"As if you're ever anything else." The Captain said, clutching her waist. His fingers trembled against her flesh.

With a roll of her eyes, Gaila reached behind her and grabbed his hands and pulled them away, straddling him. She smiled. "Good." She pinched one of his nipples, twisting the nub of flesh between her fingers.

To her satisfaction, Pike screeched, sitting up and shoving her away. "What the hell?"

"That was for my melons." Gaila stood and walked, naked, across the room. She sat in front of her vanity, grabbing the brush.

He fell back, laughing. "Okay. Okay. Sorry I forgot your damn melons."

She guided the brush through her tousled hair, wincing as the bristles caught on a knot. Damn Pike and his overenthusiastic, grabby fingers. She was over the fucking melons. Truly, she was. She threw her frustration and anger aside when she saw the Vulcan slowly losing his mind before the human woman. The terrified young woman. That girl had probably never been out of the city, never been on her own before now. Yes, the girl was running for her life—what the hell did Nyota do, Gaila couldn't help but wonder—but she was not prepared for a rabid sex-crazed man whose strength was superior to that of three grown human men. He would ruin her.

The bed shifted behind her, sheets rustling. She glanced at Pike's reflection. He sat on the edge, gathering up his pants. She should say something. Before he walked out the door. She hesitated. For the first time in her life, Gaila hesitated. There was no way to know how he would respond. Spock had always been a subject off limits. Pike knew the Vulcan's story, Gaila was certain. Knew how he came to be at Armada. And it must be dangerous. Important. It was something that warranted a vocal lashing every time someone tried to question Spock's place in the city. It was obvious that Spock had militaristic training. It was in the way he moved, the way he fought, conducted himself. The swift effective way he killed. Oh, yes, she'd seen it. At any time, Armada was prone to attacks. And, in those times, Spock would transform into an elegant killer. Was he a spy? Was he a former officer in the Prime Minister's Militia? Doubtful, Gaila thought, because Nero, like many in An'rak, hated Vulcans.

He must have been part of the Vulcan military. _Did they have a military?_ Seemed at odds with their peaceful _logical_ ways. But then, so did their violent sexual tendencies.

She took a breath and a quick shake of her head. "How's your pet Vulcan?"

Pike sighed then got to his feet, pulling his pants on. "And where did this sudden concern for Spock come from?"

"So, he's still the same. Still…sick." The word hung between them. Waiting for him to take the bait.

"I guess you could call it that."

Gaila groaned. No. This wasn't going to work. She turned around in her seat to face him. "You can't let Spock _Pon Farr_ his way into Nyota's skirts." Straightforward and to the point. Spock would be proud.

He chuckled, sitting on the edge of the bed. "There's no secret kept from you, is there?"

She didn't say anything.

Pike sighed. "If he doesn't do this, he'll die. I can't afford to lose my second-in-command. And the world can't afford to lose any more Vulcans. Particularly not him."

 _Particularly not Spock?_ What did that mean? She scoffed. Like he cared about the Vulcans. No one cared about the Vulcans. Only their thaumaturgy. That was all. No one ever saw them anyway, isolated as they were in their province. Their demise changed nothing. The Empire got what it needed from them to survive. To thrive. Nothing changed when Shi'al was demolished. They were as much of a rarity today as they were five years ago. No, Pike cared about keeping his pet around a little longer. To hell with who has to be hurt in the process. "And what about her?"

He gaped at her. "Oh, for gods—it's not like he's going to kill her."

Gaila rose to her feet, tossing the brush on the vanity with a loud clunk, and moved to her closet. She shook her head. "Oh, no, absolutely not." She flung open the doors and grabbed the first robe she reached. "Just damage her." She shook it out and threw it over her shoulders. "Humiliate her. Break her." She tied the sash and glanced down at the robe, stifling a grimace. She hated this robe. The orange flowers clashed with her skin. But it was a gift from dear sweet Pavel, most likely chosen for its soft silky texture. And she couldn't dare throw it overboard.

"I didn't realize you hated him so much."

She sighed. "I don't. And believe me, under normal circumstances, I would trust him with my life. But I don't think you understand what he's actually going through. This isn't just his being horny. This is something that fucks with his mind, robs him of all his logic and kindness and sensibility until all that's left is a beast that can only be satiated with violence and sex. That has no regard for the pleasure or safety of his partner. She doesn't deserve that. No one does."

Pike crossed his arms. "What do you propose he do, then?"

She shrugged. "Fuck me." She told that stubborn Vulcan this already.

He jumped to his feet. "You just told me he was dangerous. And now you say _you_ should be the one? How is that any different than her?"

"At least I know I can handle it. She's a spoiled city girl who no doubt comes from an influential family. Not her fault. But she's raised a certain way, to expect certain things. Romance. Courting. Vapid conversation. Awkward handholding and delicate, but dying, flowers placed in her hair. A rabid Vulcan is not one of those things."

A moment of silence. Gaila tilted her head, staring at the captain.

He ran a hand through his mussed hair, then, with a sigh, said, "I'll talk to him, all right? But I can't make any promises."

"I suppose that'll have to do."

He laughed, pulling her close. "Now, what do you say about taming this beast?"

Gaila snorted, giving him a gentle shove. "Nice try. Now, get the hell out."

He lets her go with a grin. "Okay, okay. I get it."

*/*\\*

A smile threatened to spread on T'Pring's face. It simmered just below her stoic demeanor. Across the ship, a young boy—eight or nine, she estimated—danced on the deck, his feet swishing and tapping across the planks. Around him, a small gathering of people. Men banged on pots, swept brooms across the small deck, creating makeshift music. A woman—his mother, for they had the same nose—stood and joined the boy. She took his tiny hands in hers and the two twirled around. Squeals of laughter bubbled from the boy. And the mother caught T'Pring's eye.

The priestess looked away. Neither mother nor son bore the mutilations of the _vavesh-tor_. They had joined this floating city at their own accord. Or perhaps, like her, they were kidnapped and press-ganged. Or maybe the mother was a captive, alone, and her child was the result—

No. _No_. She could not allow that train of thought to continue.

She needed further meditation. Her mind still wandered, still searched for the most troubling aspect and focused on it. The stress of the past several days have taken its toll on her body. And on her fetus.

Fetus. Soon, she would have to stop referring to it as such. It was only a matter of weeks, maybe days. Soon.

How soon, she did not know. And the Temple had no physician knowledgeable in the female reproductive system or the development of fetuses. It was not unexpected. After all, children were forbidden within the Temple's walls.

The affair had lasted weeks. The child could have been conceived any one of those times. She had been woefully naive. The child had no place in this world. Had no father willing to claim him. No legacy to inherit. Nothing. A bastard child of a disgraced priestess of a dying race.

T'Pring glanced at the dancing mother and son again.

Perhaps the child would be better off here. A home for those with no home.

But she needed to leave. She did not know where she would go. The Kul'Cha'Vir Temple would not take her back. But she could not spend the remainder of her life here. She could not engage in friendship or more with these people. Pirates. Prostitutes. Criminals. She bristled at the thought.

Gaila, the green-skinned whore, may have been kind to her last night. But how long after the birth would it be until she ripped the robes from T'Pring's body and sold it to the highest bidder? She was a Courtesan. The selling of and profiting from the body was what she did. And T'Pring imagined a former priestess's would garner high profit.

She would not be foolish again. She would not believe claims of kindness, of empathy or sympathy.

T'Pring stood on the former deck of the _Shi'Yar_ ,its name emblazoned on a large plaque above the connecting bridge. The fishing ship had been transformed into something stunning. Vines grew from the port holes, stretching across the cabins and the banisters. Where wood planks would be beneath her feet, T'Pring stood on soil. And grass. The ship had been transformed into a park. The logistics involved must have been immense, she thought, looking at the small arboretum around her. Colorful _mathra-tor_ flittered and fluttered around the trees and the brushes and the flowers.

 _Beautiful_. An illogical thought, to be sure. But apt. A bit of beauty in a vast swath of nothingness. A barren scape of nothing but water one could not even drink. No land to escape to. She was trapped.

Again, she wondered, was the woman dancing with her son forced here, too? If so, how did she survive it? How did she manage to shed her fears and her terrors and _live_?

T'Pring hated her former lover for placing her in this predicament. And taking the coward's path. No doubt, he was resting comfortably in his bed, warm under the sheets. No thought given to her.

 _Fuck you_. _Kin'rer kre'nath. Bath'paik!_ Words she wished she had had the courage to spit in his face when he stood by and her robes were stripped from her body and the whip lashed across her skin. But Surak taught her people patience and stoicism. Even in great adversity. _Ri klau au ik klau tu._ Do not harm those who harm you. She wanted to believe.

The goddess Valdena upheld purity above all else. She should be on her knees, pleading to the goddess for her forgiveness. She had no purity. Not any longer.

The young mother locked eyes with her again and smiled. She motioned to T'Pring. _Come here._

T'Pring froze. No. She could not.

She walked away, her arms around her belly, veil across her face. She crossed the rickety bridge connecting the _Shi'Yar_ to the _Tevanu_ —the makeshift memorial ship, a remembrance for those gone, littered with small markers etched with names. Flowers and other offerings lay at the foot of the markers—like tombstones, she thought—signs of respect from those still living.

This city of ships was astonishing, to be sure. And had she lived another life, one with adventure at its heart and independence in its veins, she would have loved this endless maze of ships. Both massive and small, the vessels that created the body of the floating city, were as numerous in their designs. Caravels. Dinghies. Brigs. The superior steamships of the Klingons. She recognized Xialian designs. Andorian. Denobulan. And even Vulcan.

Vulcan.

Seeing the _Reah_ , still some distance ahead, made her long for Shi'al Province. For when she was a child. And her father would bring her aboard his small fishing vessel and out to Stagpipe Channel. The _Reah_ was solid, heavy. The thick stern jutted out into a small pointed bow. A strong wooden body protected the engines hidden in the stern. No masts extended from of the ship, as it relied solely on propellers for movement. Not as strong as the Klingon vessels, but the _Reah_ could withstand a hit or two from cannons.

Yes, she wished to return to Shi'al. And Ta'Vaish, the small coastal village she'd called home. But she could not. Home no longer existed.

The deck of the _Reah_ was sparse, bare. On one side, a flight of stairs. She waddled to it, her arms still around her belly. Gripping the banister, she moved down the stairs.

And into the cavernous interior of the ship. Where the deck above was small and empty, the interior was grand and bustling. Shrines to An'rak's gods lined the walls. And patrons and worshipers gathered, offering tithes and prayers.

In the far corner, Valdena. T'Pring could not stay in Gaila's cabin. She could not offer her prayers and pleas for forgiveness from there. But she could do it here.

Perhaps Valdena will listen.

Perhaps she will forgive.

*/*\\*

The room was dark, the windows shuttered closed. Spock sat in the middle of the wooden floor. In front of him, a small table holding the _asenoi_. The tiny flame danced, flickering and flashing. His body trembled, spasmed, but his eyes were unwavering. It would guide him. It would lead him to inner peace. That was the only way to survive this.

He closed his eyes. And an image of the human linguist—of Miss Uhura rose unbidden in his mind. Her small frame, dressed in tight laces and flowing skirts. Her obvious intelligence. His mind itched. The desire to link his mind to hers, to link their bodies. It was overwhelming.

It was abhorrent.

He could not force her to submit to his primal desires.

But Spock could not chase the image of her from his mind. He could not stop the wanderings. Could not stop the desire to see her on her back, free of the laces and the skirts, to feel her tight around his cock and to feel the tendrils of her enticing mind twirl around his.

But she was terrified.

She was nervous.

She was in a world she did not know, did not understand.

How did she come to be here? What circumstances led her to the _Khosaar_ and subsequently to his library? Did she have a home? Was she lost as he was, forced to wander the world alone?

Spock opened his eyes and took a breath. He stared at the flickering flame once more. Determined. He wanted nothing more than to march across the _Lem-Reeng_ and onto the _Giidas_ to her cabin. To bar the door and fuck her. Claim her. Mark her as his. No other man shall have her.

Why must he be subject to the sexual primal urges of his father's people? It was a cruel punishment. A reminder that he was more like them than they had wished to admit. That no amount of human blood erased what he was. That he was truly a Vulcan. Not a abomination. A specimen they had been willing to sacrifice for the greater good.

But that was not fair, either.

He had asked for it. It was his duty. It was his honor.

His father, the great Sarek, was the beloved leader of Shi'al. He'd sacrificed much for his people. His health. His values. He had a son. With a member of the sworn enemy. For politics. That son wished nothing but to be a hero for his people. The people who did not want him.

For he was no true heir in their eyes.

That honor was Sybok's. But he died in the war between their nations.

The taunts Spock would endure now had they lived. _The bastard son of a human whore. Inadequate. Failure. Could not even perform his one duty properly. And we are dead because of its ineptness._

He brought a hand to his chest, rubbing roughly against the thick fabric of his uniform. It stung. It always stung.

His uniform. Another thing the Vulcans would have derided. There was little logic in wearing the uniform of a dying race. A race that had spent the past five years awaiting the goddess Reah's final judgment.

His cabin door rattled on its hinges. Spock jerked his head from the flame to see his captain enter.

"Knew I'd find you here."

A rush of frustration coursed through him. How _dare_ this human interrupt his meditations. Spock fisted his hands, his nails digging crescents into his palms. No. He must exude calmness. He must be Vulcan. He _was_ Vulcan. This affliction upon him was temporary. This man helped him when others turned a blind eye. He was his only true friend. He swallowed down a sharp retort. "Captain."

"How are you doing?"

A pointless inquiry. A waste of time. He gritted his teeth. "I am managing satisfactorily."

Captain Pike guffawed. "You mean you've still got the blue balls."

Spock did not dignify that with a response.

Pike walked around him and sat on the floor across from him, crossing his legs. The small flame danced between them. "Look, I'm going to be frank here, Spock. But there's a quick way to fix this."

"Meaning?" Spock asked, eyebrow raised upward.

"Go to Gaila. She can help you—"

Spock gritted his teeth. "I will not engage in intercourse with the Courtesan."

"Why not? She's amazing. She's got this thing she does—"

Spock tilted his head, eyes narrowing. Did the captain come here to waste his time? Spock would not do it.

Pike scoffed. "You'd rather die than fuck—"

"It is not the Vulcan way." This was one of the few remaining connections he had. As abhorrent, as inconvenient as it was.

"And Shi'al is no more. Your people are gone."

Yes. Spock's eyes slid closed and he lowered his head. The great gulf that opened in his mind the moment the _e'shua_ swallowed Shi'al. Yes, he knew his people were gone. Felt it keenly. More than Pike would ever know. The Vulcan _Irak-nahan_ was a gift to his people. Granted by the gods. Never alone. The pulses of the others caressed their minds and gave comfort. Even for Spock, who often felt the ridicule and dislike aimed towards him. Because it was better than being alone. But now, the absence of that connection, the vast barren gulf in his mind, was his curse. His cries remained unheard, unanswered. "I am well aware—"

A soft sigh. "I'm sorry. I just—I don't understand. Why aren't you willing to—"

Spock met his eyes. He was willing because he had nothing left of his people. The only thing left were ancient words that he pathetically struggled to grasp even an elementary understanding of and rituals and rites passed down for millennia through his father's line. Ancient words that were being destroyed, still. The _Kau_ fire destroyed so many words left undiscovered. No one would ever know or understand what knowledge was lost that night. So few that cared were left. Captain Pike humored his obsession, Spock knew. He smiled and nodded along when Spock would speak of it, but he did not understand nor did he care to learn. Spock had contemplated joining the burning ship on the bottom of the ocean, but that would have been defeat. It would have been illogical. "It is a Vulcan matter. I do not expect you to understand. As I do not understand your willingness to forsake the woman you'd abandoned back in Xial each and every time you lay with Miss Gaila."

Pike narrowed his eyes, clenching his jaw.

Spock upset him. A smugness threatened to arise. Very well. Perhaps he should not have gleaned such satisfaction from doing so. He was aware that it was a sacrifice Pike was forced to make when he played his hand. When he had forsaken his vows to the Prime Minister and his country.

"Then…help me understand."

So, Pike was willing to let it go. To not react to Spock's blow. Very well. Then he shall follow suit.

But Spock hesitated. This was sacred to the Vulcans. Secret. "It is—" He looked away. "It is difficult to explain to outsiders."

Pike leaned closer, seeking Spock's eyes. " _You_ are now the outsider. And will always be the outsider," he spoke gently.

 _I have always been the outsider._ Spock closed his eyes. He rubbed his chest again, feeling the strangeness beneath his fingers. Will it ever stop being foreign?

"Is it okay?"

Spock immediately dropped his hand. He had not wished to draw Pike's attention with his movements. "It is nothing."

"You sure you don't need to see Dr. M'Benga? Get that looked at—"

Spock rose to his feet, clasping his hands behind his back. "It is fine, Chris."

Pike stood. "Have you given it any more thought? Your mission, I mean."

The man's abrupt topic change threw Spock. He tilted his head, unsure of a response. For a moment, he was grateful for the change of subject. An escape from the forced and uncomfortable conversation about his current predicament. But why this?

"I apologize, but I do not understand the relevance." There was no relevance. What was happening now had nothing to do with his former mission. Of course, had he not failed the mission, his life would likely be following a much different course than it presently did. But it was illogical to focus on such imaginings.

"Take the _Fletan_ and go to Dahhana'Kahr."

Spock shook his head, his body going stiff. How dare he. "I cannot." Captain Pike knew that. He knew the parameters of Spock's mission, spoken aloud in rare evening of vulnerability. The only time Spock had mentioned them.

But Pike still did not know the whole truth. For that would die with Spock.

"Why not? Wasn't that your mission?"

"A mission that is no longer relevant. As you are well aware."

"What about revenge? Surely you want—"

He turned away, staring out the porthole. "Revenge is illogical. It will not change the past. What's done is done." Yes, he wanted it. Dreamed of it. And once, in the confines of his cabin, alone, he'd even concocted an elaborate plan to achieve that revenge. The plans were still here, buried in the bottom of his chest at the foot of his bed. Crude and illogical, they were impossible. Conceived on that same fateful night that Pike learned of his origins. A moment of weakness. Of overwhelming grief as the reality settled in. Armada had drifted passed the remains of Shi'al. Bodies floated in the still water. Spock had collapsed to his knees on the deck of the _Oekon_ , the echoes of the former lives screaming in his mind.

"Spock—"

He spun around. "Christopher, I will not!" A gulp of air. Another one. His eyes slid closed. What would his people think of him now? This shallow shell of a Vulcan—this _human_. "I appreciate and understand Miss Gaila and your concerns for Miss Uhura. However, I do not intend to force myself upon her. I will do nothing to her she does not wish of me. I thank you for these concerns, but please, leave. Now. I must resume my meditation."

The captain hesitated, scoffing. Then he shook his head. "Okay. Fine." He turned and left the cabin, letting the door close with a soft click.

Spock took several deep breaths, his fists clenching. His body shook. He did not have much longer before he entered _plak tow_. If that happened, he doubted his self control, no matter what he told Pike. Would he be able to keep his word and not force himself upon her then?

This was his fault. He knew it was. No other recourse was available to him than the terrified human woman. But that was not entirely true, was it? He had an entire floating city of women he could lay with. But the thought appalled him. He had wanted no one until now.

If he had not failed, then he'd be in Shi'Kahr with a wife, learning of his potential duties. Still spurned by the people he loved. And would not fear his actions because of this affliction.

Spock reached down and grabbed the _asenoi_ , grimacing at the burning pain, and threw it against the door with a short yell. He clenched his fist, the flame-tinged flesh screaming.

Not Vulcan. _Too Vulcan?_ He fell to his knees, his lungs heaving. Regain control. He needed to regain control. This affliction couldn't be allowed to take control. Sarek would be ashamed. _This is your human son. See his weakness. See him as the abomination he is._

He took a deep breath. And another one.

The shattered remains of his _asenoi_ lay pathetically across the floor. Another lost thing of his people. Another relic destroyed by his stupidity. Revenge was illogical. He knew this. He believed in the truth of the words as he spoke to Pike. But to feel the throat of the Prime Minister beneath his crushing fingers would be satisfying.

Satisfying. But, ultimately, empty.

Spock shook his head, chasing the thoughts away and rose to his feet. He stomped to the window and threw open the shutter. Observation of Armada citizens could provide distraction.

It was a typical day in Armada. The sun shined and the endless water sparkled. Chatter and laughter echoed throughout the ships. A group of children played in the park. Their numbers had grown in the five years since Spock's arrival. More ships would be needed to compensate for the expanding population. A daunting endeavor. For each excursion, the likelihood of their capture and defeat grew. The An'rakians were scared of them now, quick to label the floating city a myth and its residents pirates and criminals. The worse the world had ever seen. But soon, they would fail. Failure was inevitable. One day, the Armadans would seek a new ship to add to their city and they would be killed. Spock expected to be among them.

And across the way, a few decks away, there she was. Her hair shone, catching the sun's rays. Her face, warm, a small smile. She was not alone. The boy. The one with mechanical eyes. He stood with her. Spock had not engaged in conversations with Pavel Chekov often, but they both had arrived at Armada nearly the same time, with Spock arriving just three days after Chekov. Both had looked to Captain Pike for guidance in this strange new city. But that was the true extent of their connection. He did not believe Chekov to be like other _vavesh-tor_. But Spock was hot with anger. Frustration. Possession.

And now, the boy smiled at Nyota. And she at him. He nodded emphatically. She laughed. Would he deny her this small degree of comfort, of possible happiness? She did not know him. She did not know Chekov either, but the boy drew a happiness from her that Spock had not.

Somehow, across the way, implausible at best, her eyes found his. And her smile dropped. She brushed the wind tossed hair from her face and looked away from him. Scared? Uneasy? Either way, he did not draw the same degree of comfort Pavel did.

Spock slammed the shutters closed. More meditation was required.

*/*\\*

 _Shehkuh'gad, 31st of Re'T'Khuta, Armada_

 _I had a dream last night. The first dream I've had since this nightmare began. And the first dream of a man who isn't you. It angers and frustrates you that I have grown to desire another, doesn't it? That I have dreamed him inside of me. But you left. Left me alone to deal with my father and to deal with the pseudo isolation forced upon me._

 _The Vulcan entered my dreams and I cannot escape him. What is it about him that has me waking from the dream, panting and wet between my legs? I'm thankful I've moved from the Courtesan's ship. She would have known. Of course, she would have. She would have smelled it._

 _When he brushed against me I assumed it was accidental. But now, I can't escape him. I catch his gaze across ships. I feel his hands on my body and his cock inside of me when I dream. He is Vulcan. It must be true. The rumors of telepathy. Of mental powers unlike anything else. They could already control machines. Aren't people just another kind of machine?_

 _Are these feelings my own? Or are they, his?_

 _This is a dangerous place, Armada. Gaila told me such. I know as such. Perhaps I should allow the Vulcan to fuck me. Perhaps I should become his if he so desires it. Perhaps it would be safer to have the possible protection of a potentially dangerous Vulcan than to wait for the pirates and the_ vavesh-tor _to corner me and rape me. Kill me._

 _The gods know I want it. Why do I seek out men I shouldn't? Do I feel desire for this Vulcan because he is dangerous? Like you?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes:** I am so sorry for taking so long to get this chapter up. I had to deal with a somewhat unexpected illness and resulting loss and the ramifications and changes that came with that. And when I finally had the willingness to get back to this I struggled with getting the words to come out.

So I went back to the beginning and revised and rewrote this. Chapter 1 received the most heavy rewriting, but they all had a line here or a new sentence there added. Most of it was world-building. Some of it was to correct errors I noticed. But it all was necessary to convey the story I wanted to tell. So, I _strongly_ recommend going back to reread the previous chapters.

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

Jim Kirk grimaced. The large sponge squelched in his hands, squirting brown water down his arms. He dropped it in the bucket, dodging the splash. He sat back on his haunches on the ship deck, wiping the sweat from his brow with his only human hand. This was embarrassing. He was not a custodian. He was not a Xialian that had no other recourse in life. He had options. He had connections. His father was a great war hero, a prized favorite of the nobility. He could do whatever he wanted.

Could.

Once.

But that genealogy only went so far. And he ran into the end of that path. By falling for the daughter of the one Admiral who despised his father.

Of course.

Just his luck.

He still thought of her. He'd made a promise to her. But now, with these weird new appendages, he would never be able to keep it.

There's no way she'd want to see him now.

The unnatural wings on his back twitched. One jerked forward, a spine smacking into the bucket. It flipped onto its side, emptying the disgusting water across the deck he'd just clean.

Kirk punched the bucket with his foreign hand. "Fuck!"

The bucket rolled and fell into the ocean.

Of _fucking_ course.

He could leave the bucket. There were others. But the murderous woman with mechanical hands had thrust the bucket and sponge to his chest. _Yours. You lose, I take_. The wink she'd given him and the crooked smile revealing darkened teeth—honestly, they scared him. He could admit that.

With a heavy sigh, he lay across the deck, hovering over the its edge. He reached down, straining, to grab the bucket. His fingers wrapped around the small length of rope. But the bucket jerked away. And disappeared under the surface, swallowed by the water.

"What the hell?"

A head popped out of the water. "Hello!"

Kirk gasped, scrabbling away from the edge.

The man pulled himself onto the deck, sitting next to Kirk. He swung his head, flinging water on Kirk. He held the bucket out. "Didya lose this?"

Kirk yanked the bucket from the guy, slamming it on the deck beside him. "Who the hell are you?"

"Do ya have a towel?"

Kirk slowly shook his head.

The man shrugged. "Name's Montgomery Scott. Or Scotty, if you prefer."

Kirk's eyebrow rose. "Jim…Kirk."

"This is a perfect day for a swim," Scotty exclaimed, shaking his head again. Water droplets flew. He eyed Kirk's wings. "Eh, except maybe not for ya." He reached out and prodded one of the silver tips with a finger. "Think you'll tarnish?"

Kirk jerked away, his wings scraping the ship's deck. "What?"

Scotty pointed to the wings. "These are silver. _Real_ silver, mind ya. You might want to take proper care of them. It'd be a nasty shame to see those lassies lose their shine."

Take care of them? Kirk gawked at Scotty. "Thanks," he drawled. "But I'm more interested in getting rid of them."

"Why'd you want to do that?"

"Why wouldn't I?" They were nothing but constant reminders of the price he'd paid. And for what? Falling in love with the wrong girl? The right girl with the wrong family. Yes, Kirk wanted to get rid of them. To have them torn from his body and thrown to the sea floor. He'd take the pain, the potential catastrophic consequences of it if it meant no longer being a _vavesh-tor_. Then he could return to Carol. And take her away from her insane father.

"Aye, I see." Scotty nodded. "They are a wee bit garish, aren't they?"

Kirk could only grimace. "Yeah. Sure." That was exactly the problem. He rolled his eyes.

"Have ya considered modifications? Clean them up a bit?"

"What are you talking about?" Kirk stared at the man. He'd never seen this man before in his life. What right did this…Scotty think he had asking about this? "I don't want modifications. I want them gone."

But the man ignored him and instead reached out and prodded one of the wing tips again. He jumped to his feet, whirling behind Kirk. He pulled one wing out, stretching it outward, then bending it forward. He twisted the long spindles, moving them back and forth. "Hmm. A wee bit of work and the good ol' doc could have ya flyin'."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Kirk repeated. He looked across the ship's deck. The feral woman stared at him. She jerked her hands at him, mimicking a cleaning motion. He sighed. "Look. It was really nice to meet you and everything. But—" He climbed to his feet. "I've got work to do."

Scotty jumped to his feet as well. "Oye. I'm serious." He yanked on his collar, exposing his neck.

Kirk gaped. Gills. This man had the gills of an _aluk_. A fish. A fucking fish. "What—what did you do to get those?"

Scotty smiled. "I asked, of course."

"Did you—what—what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Do ya know how hard it is to clean the ships, to fix their underbellies without drowning? Now, mind ya, Commander Spock whipped up a real shiny helmet for me. Let me breath underwater. But it was a clunker. Got in the way. Doc M'Benga was a life saver."

"You—you _chose_ to be a _vavesh-tor_?"

"Aye. Though, I don't think _vavesh-tor_ is what I am. I'm the same as 've always been. Just better at swimmin'."

Jim spared another look at the woman. She threw her own rag to the ground, marching towards him. Shit. "Umm…look, I've got work to do. So, if you don't mind?"

Scotty held his hands out, placating. "No trouble at all. 'Ve got barnacles to tend to meself. But think about it." He turned and dove into the water.

Think about it? Fuck that. Kirk wasn't going to spare that one more thought. Now, if the doctor could turn back time and take the monstrosities away, he'd listen. He would get down on his knees and plead with the doctor. But otherwise, no. It wasn't going to happen.

He snatched up the soggy sponge and tossed it on the deck. It was going to be a long day.

*/*\\*

Abasi Uhura yanked open the door to his office, barking an order to his valet. "Get my wife in here!"

"Of course, sir." The man bowed his head and, without further word, left the room, closing the door behind him.

With a loud grunt, Dr. Uhura threw the wrinkled newspaper on the desk. The paper hit the polished wood with a _thwack!_ , falling open to the taunting headline.

 _ **Daughter of Esteemed Professor Wanted in Connection to Dahhana'Kahr attack**_

 _The daughter of Abasi Uhura, professor of law and ethics at the elite Dahhana'Kahr University and close advisor to Prime Minister Nero, is wanted for her connection to Dr. Leonard McCoy. McCoy was the mastermind behind the frightening attacks that left hundreds dead and hundreds more without a home five years ago._

 _Nyota Uhura, age 23, was a student (Ph. D. candidate) of linguistics at the famed university when she was reported missing by the authorities. She has not been seen in two months. The Militia report that several sources have confirmed to them that Miss Uhura was seen on numerous occasions in Kafel Alley with the fugitive, Dr. Leonard McCoy (45)._

" _The two of them were having an affair. Everybody knew it," one source claimed. "He took her to his lab in the Alley often." Others claim that Miss Uhura herself was the mastermind behind the attack. "She hated—"_

He fumed. This was an embarrassment. When his colleagues caught wind of this— _if they haven't already_. He would be ruined. He paced the room, tugging on his waistcoat. No. Not all was lost just yet. He mustn't lose hope. He still had options. Favors to call upon.

He sat at his desk, reaching for his pen.

Perhaps Prime Minister Nero can be reasoned with. The man trusted him. Valued his opinions and his knowledge. Dr. Uhura grunted. But Nero valued his power more. Valued his own powers above all else. And he didn't have qualms about making sure the truth was diverted and blame placed on others.

The door opened again. And his wife, M'Umbha, entered. Dark circles under her eyes. Pallid skin. Thinning waist and hair. Yes, Nyota's disappearance has ravaged his wife's body. Fragile, she was not suited for such perils. He wished to protect her from the current horror, but she had to know. If she spent any time with her friends, she'd learn from them. And that would devastate her more. "What is it? Have they found her yet? Is she—"

Abasi jerked his thumb at the abandoned newspaper. It was best to let her read it on her own. She walked slowly to the desk and picked up the paper. He stayed silent, allowing her the time. He averted his gaze to his desk. Gave her this moment. This semblance of privacy.

A sob and he looked up.

M'Umbha sank into the chair in front of his desk. "But she—"

"Our daughter is a great many things. But she is not a murderer. She is not a terrorist. Willful. Arrogant. Defiant. Yes. But she is not a common criminal." _Even if she had no qualms about laying with one. Damn her._ Abasi clenched his fists. If she'd kept her damn legs shut, she'd be home now.

"What will happen to her if the Militia find her?"

A sigh escaped his lips. Abasi stood again, moving around his desk. He paced the office. "I don't know. Most likely, she would be made a _vavesh-tor_."

M'Umbha sobbed, burying her face in her hands.

 _Vavesh-tor_. The word tasted repugnant on his lips. His daughter, a monster? No. No, he could not think of that. He could not allow that. But how could he stop it? "That seems to be the Prime Minister's favorite form of punishment these days." Curse the Prime Minister's name? Have your tongue cut out and replaced with that of an _aylak_ , long and slithering, venom dripping from your mouth slowly poisoning you. Or have your jaw cut from your body. Murder someone and have your hands cut and replaced with foul machines. Sharp edges. Poisonous teeth and slobbering tongues.

No.

"Our Nyota cannot be maimed. You cannot allow it," M'Umbha hissed, swiping at the tears on her face.

No. They could not see their daughter become a monster. Everyone would see. Everyone would know. He had a reputation. One that, so far, had remained untouched by his daughter's indiscretions. But her monstrosity would change that. It would be too great a catastrophe to be ignored. Brushed aside. _Oh, you had a daughter? I did not know. What became of her?_ No. It would be the talk of the University. Of the entire city. Maybe even the entire fucking Empire. the Prime Minister is slipping. _Did you hear, he let the father of a common criminal sit on his Council? What are we becoming?_ The Prime Minister would look weak.

Abasi sighed. Nero would never allow that to happen. "I may not have a choice in the matter."

M'Umbha threw the paper at him, catching him in the face. "You _do_ have a choice! She's your daughter. _Do_ something!"

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face. Yes, M'Umbha was right. Nyota was his daughter. Despite everything, despite his disappointment in her decisions, she was his flesh and blood. It would pain him to see her disfigured. But it would only be a matter of time before the Militia found her. No one could outrun them forever. Their reach was far. "What do you want me to do?"

"Find. Her. Before they do."

Abasi shook his head. "It's been months. The gods only know where she is."

"Ta'vistar." M'Umbha nodded.

"What—"

"She would go to Ta'vistar. She despised your removing her from that place. She'd go there."

He sighed. "We don't know that. And if Nyota is truly as smart as she credits herself as being, she'd be far away from Ta'vistar. That'd be the first place they'd look."

"It is also the only other place she knows. She'd go there first. She has friends there."

"M'Um—"

"Find her." She sneered. "By the gods, you fucking find her. And bring her home. It is your fault she's in this mess."

"My fault?" Abasi stood, leaning over the desk. "How is this—"

"Yes," M'Umbha said, calmly. "I blame you. And your obsession with your reputation." She stood. "Find her."

*/*\\*

Rank. Acrid.

Nyota's nose burned. She choked on the noxious fumes from the _Aluk'kak_. Armada's fish market. Men and women—normal and remade—threw fish across the deck, catching them and passing them down the line. Under one stall, a pile of slimy rotting carcasses festered in the sweltering sun. Flies and other insects swarmed the bloated carps.

"By the gods," Nyota whispered. How the hell was she going to survive even the smell of this place? Dahanna'Kahr was disgusting in its own way, she would not deny, permeating with oil and dirt and piss and shit that never left her clothing, no matter how much she would clean them or asked her handmaid to do the same. But this? She gagged, holding a hand to her nose.

"Look out!" a man yelled.

Nyota spun in his direction and, with a yelp, ducked just in time to avoid a face full of fish.

"Sorry, Miss. But—"

Another fish flew through the air. Nyota ducked that one, too. And then a screech sounded above her. One of the silver birds making Armada its home, the _xirahnah_ , dived through the air and snatched the fish.

"Fucking birds!" A woman rushed towards Nyota, her silver hands waving in the air. "Get out of here! Get the fuck out!"

Nyota dodged away from the _vavesh-tor._

"The fucking Vulcan's birds need to leave." She kicked at the deck, her boot scraping the wood. "Getting tired of this fucking shit! Someone needs to tell the Captain his Vulcan's birds need to go."

The man held his hands out, placating. "Please, Sera." He pointed to Nyota. "Can't you tell we're in front of a lady?"

Sera zeroed her focus on Nyota and laughed. "Oh, a _lady_? Is that right?" She approached Nyota, who backed up a step. Then another. The woman stretched out one of her unnatural hands.

Nyota inched away.

The woman sneered. "Just like the rest of 'em. Think you're so high and mighty and better than the rest of us because you're prettier or because you come from money—"

"I don't think—"

"Yeah, ya do. You've probably spent time in the slums of the capital, helping the poor and needy because it made you look good." Sera laughed. "But look how far you've fallen now. Rolling in it with us less unfortunate." She glanced at the man. "How long do you reckon it'll be until she's spreading those pretty lil' legs down at the whorehouse?"

Nyota swung her hand back to slap her, but Sera caught her by the wrist, yanking her close. Sera's mechanical grasp clutched at her wrist, shifting the delicate bones. Nyota winced and a small whimper slipped from her lips.

"We know you went with that green whore, you and that priestess. It's only a matter of time." She smirked. "If not the whore, then that Vulcan." She leaned in close, whispering into her ear. "Did you know he's the one who murdered his own people? Only a matter of time before he snaps again."

Only a matter of time. Only a matter of time. Was this deranged woman telling the truth? No. No, she couldn't be. Gaila had already warned her. Told her to be careful. That dangers lurked in Armada. This woman was one of them. Nyota shook her head. No, she would not become a whore. She would not. She spit on her. "Fuck you." She jerked her hand away. "Don't come near me again."

She spun around and marched down the deck of the _Aluk'kak_. She tried to ignore the woman's laughter.

*/*\\*

The wooden planks creaked under her feet and her hands grasped the ropes as she climbed onto the _Khosaar_. The rundown ship swayed in the water, tapping the neighboring ships, pulling on the ropes tying them together. Across the way, Nyota could see the formidable _Reah_ and the flagship _Oekon,_ both standing tall above the floating city. The _Khosaar_ paled, a damaged dinghy in comparison. Why did Commander Spock wish to house his rare collection on such a derelict ship? One huge wave, and the vessel would disappear into the ocean. Along with his relics. It was stupid.

On the small deck, she found the Vulcan. Serene, he stood before the massive silver birds. His eyes slid closed. A hand outstretched, his fingers graced the closest bird's long beak, sweeping back and forth.

The bird pulled away, with a quiet call, and the flock flew off, heading to the north.

"What were you doing?" She asked, stopping beside him.

Eyes slowly opening, Spock glanced at her. Then away. "Linking our minds." He turned to the cabin, motioning for her to follow. He clasped his hands behind his back.

"What?"

"So that I may communicate with the creature in a way it can comprehend. To direct it. To ask a favor of it." He opened the cabin door, allowing her to enter. He followed, closing the door with a gentle click.

Nyota spun to look at him. "Can—can all Vulcans possess the minds of others?" _Should I be worried?_ A question she feared asking. She wrapped her arms around herself, glancing at the walls of the cabin. There wasn't a lot of space in here. Her chest tightened. Sweat drenched her, trapped under the corset and waistcoat. So cool in the evening. So warm in the morning sun. He had her trapped in here. He could do anything and who would care enough to stop him?

Maybe it wasn't Gaila she should be worried about. Gods, she was a hypocrite, wasn't she? Just the other day, she contemplated letting him have her body. As a means of her protection. Now, she feared what he might do if he had it. No. There was no reason to believe the ramblings of that madwoman outside. No Vulcan killed his people. That was the gods.

The Commander opened his mouth. Then closed it. A small sigh. "It is not mind possession. It is not mind control. It is merely a means of communication."

A moment of silence passed. Nyota glanced at him again. He met her gaze.

"As for other Vulcans' abilities, few possessed the power before the Fall. And far fewer possess it now." He sat at his desk, opening a robust tome. And fell silent once more.

The Fall? A euphemism Nyota expected a Vulcan to bypass. Was it not logical to refer to an event as it was? _But what do you call this one?_ Genocide? That didn't fit. No person orchestrated the tragedy. The Gods' will? But why would the eradication of a single race of people be the will of the gods? Particularly the Vulcans. She shook her head. It was too much.

This place was too much. Outside, across the decks, the murderess—Sera—waited, a violent smile on her face. Nyota's only companions were a disgraced priestess who hated her and a whore who may or may not want her to work for her.

And a Vulcan Commander who spent more time avoiding her. Who spoke with intelligence when he did see her. Who encapsulated everything she'd envisioned about Vulcans while studying them in University. Except that he may be a killer. A rapist. He was here for a reason. And she could think of no good ones.

His pallid cheeks were now warm with color. The shadows under his eyes were gone. The tremors, vanquished. "Are you better?"

Spock was silent for a moment. "Yes. I have overcome my illness." He raised a brow. "I suppose I should ask you the same."

Nyota paced the floor, wringing her hands together. Would the woman be waiting for her when she was finished here? "I'm sorry?"

"Forgive the intrusion, but you appear agitated."

A laugh exploded from her. She dropped her gaze to the floor, hand to her mouth, smothering the sound. "I'm sorry. It's nothing."

He tilted his head. "Your behavior suggests otherwise."

She waved her hand. "Oh. Just a run in with a _vavesh-tor_. Some horrible woman with machines for hands."

"Ah." Spock nodded. "You've met Miss Sera. I apologize for that. She has been…difficult. I admit, I am at a loss for how to deal with her. I almost regret asking Captain Pike to allow her to remain here."

She wrapped her arms around her waist. If only to still her shaking hands. "Then why did you?"

He grew silent. Did she push too far? Skirt too close to something?

"I'm sorry." She cleared her throat. "I understand Vulcans are a private people."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Most people would have said 'were.' You did not." He met her eyes.

"Most people are stupid."

The corner of his mouth definitely lifted. "Indeed. That has been my experience, as well." He looked away. "As for Miss Sera's continued presence aboard Armada, I find that I do not know what compelled me to ask that of Captain Pike. Perhaps I found a kindred spirit in her. But I was amiss. Perhaps some _vavesh-tor_ truly deserve their punishment."

Truly deserve their punishment? Didn't they all deserve it? Rapists. Murderers. Thieves. Traitors. They were criminals. She was a criminal, wasn't she? An alleged accomplice of Leonard McCoy, wanted for questioning. She ran. If they caught her, what would they do to her? Cut off her legs? Attach her waist to the top of a steam-powered boiler so she could not run away and always feel the heat of condemnation, damning her for her the rest of her life? Or have her mouth erased from her face for her unwillingness to confess to her connection to Leonard? Slowly starve to death in the dirty alleys of Dahanna'Kahr? Of N'Klane? Nyota's heart pounded in her chest. Her vision narrowed, darkened to a narrow tunnel. By the gods, she was truly trapped on this floating city for the rest of her life, wasn't she? She couldn't go back. They'd mutilate her. Destroy her.

It terrified her.

To think that she could be one of those creations outside this room.

 _I didn't do anything. I didn't—_

She swayed, the world turning dark. A loud scraping noise echoed around her.

A pair of hands wrapped around her waist. "Miss Uhura."

She faltered. The hands gripped tighter.

"Are you unwell?"

She opened her eyes. Shook her head. "I'm—I'm sorry." She could never risk setting foot on An'rakian soil again. Tears burned the backs of her eyes. She fought them at bay. She would not cry in front of one of her captors.

"Did Sera harm you?"

Nyota dropped her gaze and her hands came to rest on his arms. He still held her. Did he notice? She shook her head. "No. No. She, uh, she scared me, though. She's intense." She bit off a choking laugh.

"Yes."

A tear rolled down her cheek. "Damn it," she whispered, swiping it away.

Spock tilted her head upward gently, a finger under her chin. "If she—or anyone—threatens physical harm against you, please, inform me at once. And I will deal with it. Despite outward appearances, Armada was created as a safe haven from the Empire."

Was it, though? A safe haven? She'd seen Spock's own men kill an unarmed man. His Captain Pike threatened them all with the bottom of the ocean if they didn't comply. She met Spock's hooded gaze. "Thank you," she whispered.

He leaned forward, his hot breath against her lips.

She stepped back with a gasp. "Don't."

Spock let go of her, clasping his hands behind his back. "I apologize, Miss Uhura." He breathed hard and glanced at the closed door. Looking at the floor, he said, "I must—forgive my behavior, Miss Uhura. I must retreat. Please, continue your research. Anything you find will be beneficial." And without further word, he escaped the cramped cabin.

Nyota released a shaky breath.

She had wanted it.

*/*\\*

 _Teh'gad, 2nd of T'kekhuti, Armada_

 _He left me alone again._

 _He almost kissed me._

 _I should have let him._

 _I should have. Because now, I can no longer sleep without him plaguing my dreams. He did something to me. He must have. I'm certain of it._

 _He can control the minds of birds—he denied it—but they did his bidding. (see, Vulcans can use it on more than just machines.) Why else would I be awake, sitting at this desk with this tiny candle my only light as I write this letter I know you'll never see?_

 _I want him._

 _And it scares me. And excites me. Is it me? That feels this way? Or is he making me feel this way?_

 _I want him. And I bet you hate that._

 _Good._

 _I found another word I don't quite understand today. I've never seen it mentioned in more modern Vulcan texts. I haven't even been able to ask the Commander about the first word I found. Because he won't stay near me long enough._

 _But this new word. Phrase._ Pon Farr _. I found it in an old tome that read like a medical text. It was surrounded by a list of symptoms. Tremors. Irrational behavior. High temperature. Profuse sweating. Emotional outbursts._

 _And that was it. Nothing more, nothing less._

 _How can I find anything when I don't even know what I'm looking for? How can I figure out_ if _I've even found something if the Vulcan vanishes every time he's near me?_

 _I hate him._


End file.
